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PREFACE. 



HE autumn winds are again blowing, and the even- 


X ings are growing longer. At the time when the fires 
are kindled once more upon the hearth, I send this story 
out to visit those whom I can almost hope to regard as 
friends. If it meets the same kind welcome and lenient 
treatment which my previous works have received, I shall 
have more than sufficient reason to be satisfied. If, in 
addition to being a guest at the fireside, it becomes an in- 
centive to the patient performance of duty in the face of all 
temptation, I shall be profoundly thankful. I am not afraid 
to inform the reader that these books are written with the 
honest, earnest purpose of helping him to do right ; and 
success, in this respect, is the best reward I crave. I do 
not claim for these books the character of beautiful works of 
art. Many things may have good and wholesome uses with- 
out exciting the world’s admiration. A man who cannot 
model a perfect statue may yet erect a lamp post, and place 
thereon a light which shall save many a wayfarer from stum- 
bling. 

It is with much diffidence and doubt that I have ventured 
to construct my story in a past age, fearing lest I should 
give a modern coloring to everything. But, while the book 
is not designed to teach history, I have carefully consulted 
good authorities in regard to those parts which are histori- 


cal. 


iv 


PJHEFACE. 


Captain Molly has her recognized place in the Revolution, 
but my leading characters are entirely imaginary. Still, 
I hope the reader may not find them such pale shadows that 
their joys, sorrow's, and temptations will appear mere sickly 
fancies, but rather the reflex of genuine, human experiences. 
They have become so real and dear to me that I part with 
them very reluctantly. 

Cornwall- on-the-Hudson, N. Y. 


CONTENTS. 




CHAPTER I. 


A Child of Nature 

• 

• 

• 

• 

1 

CHAPTER II. 

Vera and her Home 

• 

• 

• 


12 

CHAPTER III. 

The Iconoclasts .... 

• 

• 



27 

CHAPTER IV. 

For Worse ..... 

• 

• 

• 


34 

CHAPTER V. 

Washington’s Sermon 

• 

• 



44 

CHAPTER VI. 

A Scene at Black Sam’s . 

• 

• 

• 


55 

CHAPTER VII. 

New York Under Fire 

• 

• 

* 


61 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Larry Meets his Fate 

• 


• 


68 

CHAPTER IX. 

Left to Nature’s Care 

• 

• 

• 


81 

CHAPTER X. 

The Robin Hood of the Highlands . 

• 

• 

• 


*13 

CHAPTER XL 
The Mother Still Protects her Child 

• 

• 

• 


128 

CHAPTER XII. 

Beacon Fires ..... 





146 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Liberty Proclaimed Among the Highlands 

• 

• 


156 

CHAPTER XIV. 
Echoes Along the Hudson 

• 

'# 

• 

• 


167 

CHAPTER XV. 

Saville’s Night Reconnoissance 

• 

• 

• 


178 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Dark Days , , . '. 

• 

• 

• 


185 

CHAPTER XVII. 

“The White Witch of the Highlands” 

• 

• 

• 


^98 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

“The Black Witch of the Highlands” 

• 

• 

• 


204 

CHAPTER XIX. 

A Dirge Ending Joyously . . ‘ 

• 

• 

• 




vi CONTENTS. 


PACK 

CHAPTER XX. 


Gula Hears a Veritable Voice 

• 

• 

• 

825 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Camp Fires and Subtler Flames 


• 

• 

238 

CHAPTER XXII. 

The Storming of the Forts 


• 

• 

253 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

The Wife’s Quest Among the Dead 


• 

• 

265 

CHAPTER XXIV. 
Vera’s Search Among the Dead 


• 

• 

268 

CHAPTER XXV. 

The Woman in Vera Awakes . 


• 

• 

276 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

Vera’s Only Crime ..... 


• 

• 

286 

CHAPTER XXVII. 
Vera must Become an Atheist 


• 

• 

299 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A Hasty Marriage ..... 


• 

• 

309 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

Seeming Success ..... 




3 M 

CHAPTER XXX. 

A Master Mind and Will 


• 

• 

319 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

The Revelation ..... 


• 

• 

332 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

Groping her Way ..... 


• 


340 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Strong Temptation .... 


• 

• 

349 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A Stranger’s Counsel .... 


• 

• 

355 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

The Parting ...... 


• 

• 

361 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Seeking Death ..... 


• 

• 

369 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 
Seeking Life ...... 


• 

• 

383 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

A Mystery Solved— Great Changes . 


• 

• 

397 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Explanations ...... 


• 

• 

420 

CHAPTER XL. 

Husband and Wife ..... 


• 

• 

435 

CHAPTER XLI. 

Wedded with her Mother’s Ring . , 


• 

• 

443 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS, 


Portrait of the Author .... Frontispiece, 

PAGE 

There was another Low Cedar Nearer to her . , 8 

“The Top o’ the Mornin’ to ye,” Larrm had said . 73 

A Panic Seized upon the Robber 125 

Waiting and Watching 188 

Barney Fell Dead at his Victim’s Feet . . . 214 

“ Have you been Watching over me all the long Night ? ” 285 
“May God have Pity on us Both” .... 354 

A Blow Laid him Prostrate on the Plain . . . 404 


“ I AM your Wife,’’ said the WoiMan 


. 440 


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NEAR TO NATURE’S HEART. 


CHAPTER I, 


A CHILD OF NATURE. 



HE granite mountains that form the historical High- 


X lands of the Hudson have changed but little during 
the past century. On the 17th of June, about one hundred 
years ago, a day inseparably associated in American memory 
with Bunker Hill, and the practical severance of the cable of 
love and loyalty that once bound the colonies to the mother 
country, these bold hills undoubtedly appeared much as 
they do now. In the swales and valleys, the timber, un- 
touched as yet by the woodman’s axe, was heavier than the 
third or fourth growth of our day. But the promontories 
overhanging the river had then, as now, the same grand and 
rugged outlines of rock and precipice. The shrubbery, and 
dwarf trees, that catch and maintain their tenacious hold on 
every crevice and fissure, softened but little the frowning 
aspect of the heights, that, like grim sentinels, guard the 


river. 


.But nature in her harshest moods can scarcely resist the 
blandishments of June ; even as the sternest features relax 
under the caresses of youth and beauty. On this warm still 
day of early summer, when over the city of Boston the wild- 
est storm of war was breaking, the spirit of peace seemed 
supreme even in that rugged gorge into which the Hudson 


2 


Ar£AJ^ TO NATURE'S HEART, 


passes from Newburgh Bay, and a luminous haze softened 
every sharp outline. The eastern shore was aglow with the 
afternoon sun, like a glad face radiant with smiles. The 
western bank with its deepening shadows was like a happy 
face passing from thought into re very, which, if not sad, is 
at least tinged with melancholy. 

From most points of observation there were no evidences 
of other life than that distinctively belonging to the wilder- 
ness. If the pressure of population has brought so few in- 
habitants in our time, there was still less inducement then 
to settle where scarcely a foot-hold could be obtained among 
the crags. Therefore the region that is now filling up with 
those who prefer beautiful scenery to the richest lowlands, 
was one of the wildest solitudes on the continent, though 
amidst rapidly advancing civilization, north as well as south 
of the mountains. 

While at that time the river was one of the chief highw-ays 
of the people, the means of communication between the 
seaboard and a vast interior, so that the batteaux of voyagers 
and passing sails were common enough, still the precipitous 
shores offered slight inducement to land, and the skippers 
of the little craft were glad to pass hastily through this for- 
bidding region of sudden flaws and violent tides, to the 
broad expanse of Tappan Zee, where the twinkle of home 
lights and the curling smoke from farm-house and hamlet 
in the distance reminded them that they were near their own 
kind. 

But there was neither boat nor sail in sight on the memo- 
rable afternoon upon which my story opens, not a trace of 
the human life that now pulsates through this great artery of 
the land, save a small sail -boat drifting slowly under the 
shadow of Cro’nest. The faint breeze from the west died 
away as the sun declined, and the occupant had dropped 
the sail that only flapped idly against the mast The tide 


A CHILD OF HA TURK, 


3 


was still setting up in the center of the river, but had turned 
close in-shore. Therefore, the young man, who was the 
sole occupant of the boat, reclined languidly in the stern, 
with his hand on the tiller, and drifted slowly M'ith the cur- 
rent around the mimic capes and along the slight indenta- 
tions of the shore, often so close that he could leap upon a 
jutting rock. 

Though the almost motionless vessel and the seemingly 
listless occupant were in keeping with the sultry hour, dur- 
ing which nature appeared in a dreamy revery, still their 
presence was the result of war. A nearer view of the young 
man who was mechanically steering, proved that his languid 
attitude was calculated to mislead. A frown lowered upon 
his wide brow, and his large, dark eyes were full of trouble — 
now emitting gleams of anger, and again moist in their sym- 
pathy with thoughts that must have been very sad or very 
bitter. His full, flexible mouth was at times tremulous with 
feeling, but often so firmly compressed as to express not so 
much resolve, as desperation. In contrast to nature’s peace, 
there was evidently the severest conflict in this man’s soul. 
In his deep pre-occupation, he would sometimes permit his 
boat to drift almost ashore ; then his impatient and power- 
ful grasp upon the tiller bespoke a fiery spirit, and a strong, 
prompt hand to do its behests. 

But, by the time he had crossed the flats, south of 
“ Cro’nest, he seemed inclined to escape from his painful 
revery, and take some interest in surrounding scenes. He 
looked at his watch, and appeared vexed at his slow progress. 
He took the oars, pulled a few strokes, then cast them down 
again, muttering, 

“ After all, what do a few hours signify ? Besides, I am 
infinitely happier and better off here than in New York 
and he threw himself back again in his old listless attitude. 

His boat was now gliding around that remarkable projec' 


4 


JV£AJ? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


tion of land that has since gained a world-wide celebrity 
under the name of West Point. When a little beyond what 
is now known as the old Steamboat Landing, he thought he 
heard a woman’s voice. He listened intently, and a snatch 
of wild melody, clear and sweet, floated to him through the 
still air. He was much surprised, for he expected to find 
no one in that solitude, much less a woman with a voice as 
sweet as that of a brown-thrush that was giving an occasional 
prelude to its evening song in a shady nook of the moun- 
tains. 

He at once proposed to solve the mystery, and so divert 
his thoughts from a subject that was evidently torture to 
dwell upon ; and keeping his boat close to the land, that it 
might be hidden, and that he could spring ashore the 
moment he wished, he pursued his way with a pleasant 
change in a face naturally frank and prepossessing. 

As he approached the extreme point where now the light- 
house stands, the notes became clear and distinct. But he 
could distinguish neither air nor words. Indeed, at his dis- 
tance, the melody seemed improvised, capricious, the utter- 
ances of a voice peculiarly sweet but untrained. 

It soon became evident that the songstress was on the 
south side of the rocky point, on which grew clumps of low 
cedar. Standing with an oar in the bow of his boat, and 
causing it to touch the shore so gently that the keel did not 
even grate upon the rock, he sprang lightly to land, and 
secured his vessel. He next stole crouchingly up behind a 
low, wide-spreading cedar, from whence he could see over 
the ridge. 

It was a strange and unexpected vision that greeted him. 
He naturally supposed that some woodman’s or farmer’s 
daughter had come down to the bank, or that a party of 
pleasure had stopped there for a time. But he saw a crea- 
ture whom he could in no way account for. 


A CHILD OF NATURE. 


5 


Reclining with her back toward him on a h’ttle grassy plot 
just above a rock that shelved down to the water, was a 
young girl dressed in harmony with her sylvan surroundings. 
Her attire was as simple as it was strange, consisting of an 
embroidered tunic of finely dressed fawn skin, reactyng a 
little below the knee, and ending in a blue fringe. Some 
lighter fabric was worn under it and encased the arms. The 
shapely neck and throat were bare, though almost hidden 
by a wealth of wavy, golden tresses that flowed down her 
shoulders. Her hat appeared to have been constructed out 
of the skin of the snowy heron, with its beak and plumage 
preserved intact, and dressed into the jauntiest style. Leg- 
gings of strong buckskin, that formed a protection against 
the briars and roughness of the forest, were clasped around 
a slender ankle, and embroidered moccasins completed an 
attire that was not in the style of the girl of the period even 
a century ago. She might have passed for an Indian 
maiden, were it not for the snowy whiteness of her neck, 
where the sun had not browned it, and for her good pro- 
nunciation of English. In her little brown hand she held a 
fishing-rod, but she had ceased to watch her floral float, 
which was the bud of a water-lily tied to the line. Indeed, 
the end of her pole dipped idly in the water, while she, 
forgetful of the sport or toil, whichever it might be, sang 
her passing feelings and fancies as unaffectedly as the birds 
on the hills around, that now were growing tuneful after the 
heat of the day. 

Thus far, our hero, whom we may as well introduce 
at once as Theron Saville, had been able to distinguish 
only disjointed words, that had no seeming connec- 
tion ; mere musical sparkles, rising from the depths of a 
glad, innocent heart. But imagine his surprise when she 
commenced singing to an air that he had often heard in 
England : 


6 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 


“ I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, 

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.” 

She broke off suddenly, sprang up, and commenced wind- 
ing the line upon her pole. Then Saville saw that, though 
very joung seemingly, she was taller and more fully de- 
veloped than he had supposed. At first glance she had 
appeared to be little more than a child, but as she stood 
erect, he saw that she was somewhat above medium height 
and straight as an arrow. 

He was most eager to see her face, thinking that it might 
help to solve the mystery, but she perversely kept it from 
him as she leisurely wound up her line, in the mean time 
chattering to herself in a voice so flexible and natural that it 
seemed to mirror every passing thought. Now, in mimic 
anger she cried, “ Out upon you, fishes, great and small — 
whales, leviathans, and minnows ! ‘ Canst thou draw out 

leviathan with a hook Canst thou put a hook into his 
nose.?’ No, I can’t; nor in the nose of a single perch, 
white or yellow. Did I not whisper when I first came, 

‘ Come home with me to supper ? Scaly, unmannerly 
knaves, out upon you ; I’ll none of you.” 

Then, with instant change to comic pathos, she con- 
tinued, “ ‘ Alas, ’tis true, ’tis pity ; and pity ’tis, ’tis true.’ 
I’ 11 none of you — when I wanted a dozen. ’ ’ 

Suddenly, with a motion as quick as a bird on its spray, 
she turned, and appeared to look directly at Saville. He 
was so startled that he almost discovered himself, but was 
reassured by noticing that she had not seen him, but was 
looking over his sheltering cedar at something beyond, with 
a pouting vexation, that he learned a moment later was 
only assumed. He now saw her features, but while they 
awakened a thrill of admiration, they gave no clue to her 
mystery. The hue of perfect health glowed upon her oval 
face, while her eyes were like violets of darkest blue. The 


A CHILD OF NA TURK. 


1 


mouth was full, yet firm, and unlike Saville’s, which was 
chiefly expressive of sensibility and suggested an emotional 
nature. 

Altogether, she seemed a creature that might haunt a 
painter’s or a poet’s fancy, but have no right or real exist- 
ence in this matter of-fact world. Saville could not account 
for her, and still his wonder grew when she exclaimed in 
tones as mellow as the notes of the bird she addressed : 

“ What are you saying there, saucy robin? You’re so 
proud of your scarlet waistcoat, you’re always putting your- 
self forward. ‘ The sun’s behind the mountain, and it’s 
time for evening songs,’ you say. Well, I can see that as 
well as you. Go sing to your little brown wife on her nest, 
and cease your ‘ mops and mowes ’ at me. 

“ ‘ I can sing in sunshine, 

I can sing in shadow, 

In the darkest forest glen, 

O’er the grassy meadow, 

At night, by day, ’tis all the same. 

Song is praise to His loved name,”' 

Then she lifted her face and eyes heavenward, as if from 
an impulse of grateful devotion. Her white throat grew 
full, as in slower measure, and with a voice that seemed to 
fill the balmy June evening with enchantment, she sang as 
a hymn those exquisite words from Isaiah : 

*' For ye shall go out with joy, 

And be led forth with peace ; 

The mountains and the hills 

Shall break forth before you into singing. 

And all the trees of the field shall clap their hands." 

Saville was in a maze of bewilderment and delight. Was 
this a creature of earth or heaven ? A fairy or an ideal 
Indian maiden, the perfect flower of sylvan life ? All his 
classic lore flashed upon him. Oreads and dryads, nymphs 


8 


JVEA/? TO NAT [/EE'S HEART, 


of the mountain and forest tripped through his brain to no 
purpose. She seemed to him as much a being of the imag- 
ination as any of them, but was so tantalizingly near and 
real, that he could see the blood come and go in her face, 
the rise and fall of her bosom, the changing light of her 
eyes ; and yet he feared almost to breathe lest she should 
vanish. Moreover, a pure English accent, and familiarity 
with Shakspeare and the Bible, savored not of the wigwam 
nor of Greek mythology. He resolved to watch her till she 
seemed about to depart, and then seek to intercept her, and 
by questions solve the enigma. 

The girl stood quietly for a moment as the last sweet 
notes of her voice were repeating themselves in faint echoes 
from the hill-sides, and then in a low tone murmured, 

“ How can I be lonely when God makes all His crea- 
tures my playmates*?’ ’ 

In the quick transition that seemed one of her character- 
istics, she soon snatched up her fishing-rod, exclaiming : 

“ Old Will Shakspeare, I know more than you.” And 
she sang again, 

“ • I know a bank ’ where the strawberry ‘ blows,’ 

Where the red ripe strawberry even now ‘ grows,’ 

‘ Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, 

With sweet musk roses and with eglantine ; ’ 

These I can gather long before the night, 

And carry home to mother ‘ with dances and delight ’ — 

with dances and delight” — and as she repeated this refrain, 
she lifted her slight pole like a wand over her head, and 
commenced tripping on the little grassy plot as strange and 
fantastic a measure as ever wearied Titania, the fairy queen. 

There was another low cedar nearer to her, and Saville 
determined to reach this, if possible. He did so, unper- 
ceived, and for a moment gazed with increasing wonder on 
her strange beauty. Though she seemed a perfect child of 



There was anoiiier Low 


Cedar Nearer to her. 




4 • 


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A CHILD OF NATURE. 


9 


nature, as unconventional as a fawn in its gambols, there 
was not a trace of coarseness or vulgarity in feature or action. 

Suddenly the girl ceased her improvised dance, and 
looked around as with a vague consciousness of alarm. It 
was evident she had not seen nor heard anything distinctly, 
but as if possessing an instinct akin to that of other wild 
creatures of the forest, she felt a danger she could not see. 
Or, perhaps, it was the influence of the same mysterious 
power which enables us in a crowded hall to fix our eyes 
and thoughts on one far removed, and, by something con- 
cerning which we hide our ignorance by the term “ mag- 
netism,” draw their eyes and thoughts to ourselves. 

From her quivering nostrils and dilating eyes Saville saw 
that his nymph of the mountain, wood, or water — the em- 
bodied enigma that he was now most curious to solve — was 
on the eve of flight ; therefore, cap in hand, and with the 
suave grace of one familiar with the salons of Paris, he 
stepped forth from his concealment. 

Put, seemingly, his politeness was as utterly lost on the 
maiden as it w^ould have been on a wild fawn, or the heron 
whose plumage mingled with her flowing hair ; for like an 
arrow she darted by him up the steep ascent, with a motion 
so swift, so seemingly instantaneous, that he stood gazing 
after her as helplessly as if a bird had taken wing. 

It was not until she had gained a crag far above him, and 
there paused a moment, as if her curiosity mastered her 
fears, that he recovered himself, and cursed his stupid 
slowness. 

But, when he again advanced toward her and essayed to 
speak, she sprang from her perch, and was lost in the thick 
copse-wood of the bank. Only her light hazel fishing-rod, 
and the line with the water lily bud, remained to prove that 
the whole scene was not an illusion, a piece of witchery that 
comported well -with the hour and the romantic region.* 


10 


J\r£A/^ TO NATURE^ S HEART. 


Correctly imagining that though invisible she might be 
watching him, he took the flower and put it in his button- 
hole, leaving the pole on the bank ; then, taking off his 
hat, he again bowed in the direction whither she had fled, 
with his hand upon his heart, which pantomime he hoped 
contained enough simplicity and nature to serve in place of 
the words she would not stay to hear. 

He then pushed his boat from the shore (for he no more 
thought of following her than he would a zephyr that had 
gone fluttering through the leaves), and permitted it to drift 
down with the tide as before. 

With the faint hope of inducing her to appear again, he 
took up a flute, of which he had become quite a master, 
and which he usually carried with him on his solitary ex- 
peditions, and commenced playing the air to which she 
had sung the words, 

“ I know a bank ” 

He was rewarded by seeing first the plumage of the snowy 
heron, then the graceful outline of the maiden’s form on a 
projecting rock where now frowns Battery Knox. He again 
doffed his hat, and turned the prow of his boat in-shore, at 
which she vanished. 

Believing now that she was too shy to be won as an ac- 
quaintance, or resolute in her purpose to shun a stranger, 
he pursued his journey with many wondering surmises. 
But partly to please himself, and with some hope of pleasing 
her, he made the quiet June evening so resonant with music 
that even the birds seemed to pause and listen to the un- 
wonted strains. 

Thus he kept the shores echoing and re-echoing till his 
boat was gliding under a precipitous bluff, where it would 
be impossible to land. Here a light northern breeze came 
fluttering down the river with its iniiurnerable retinue of 


A CHILD OF NATURE. 


I 


ripples, and Saville threw down the flute and hoisted his 
sail. As he glided out from the shadow of the bluff to the 
center of the river, the same weird and beautiful voice re- 
sounded from the rocks above him, with a sweetness and 
fullness that filled the whole region and hour with enchant- 
ment, 

“ I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows.’* 

Then he saw the plumage of the snowy heron waving him 
a farewell, and distinguished the half concealed form of the 
maiden. The northern gale tossed her unconfined hair for 
a moment, and then the vision vanished. 

The wind freshened, and soon the water was foaming 
about the bow of his boat. Taking up his flute, he gave as 
a responsive farewell the simple melody which had become 
a kind of signal between them, the one link of mutual 
knowledge, the gossamer thread that might draw their lives 
closer together. 

The maiden, who no longer needed the sheltering foliage, 
but was concealed by the deepening twilight, listened till 
the faintest echoes had died away in the distance, and then, 
quite as bewildered and full of wonderment as the hero of 
our story, slowly retraced her steps toward West Point. 

Saville gazed lingeringly and regretfully back upon the 
landscape that grew more picturesque every moment in the 
uncertain light, and felt that he was leaving a fairy land for 
one of stern and bitter realities. 


12 


N£A/i TO NATURE'S HEART 


CHAPTER II. 


VERA AND HER HOME. 


ITH slow and thoughtful steps, the young girl pur 



vv sued her way, finding a path where, to another, 
there would have been only a tangled forest, growing among 
steep ridges and jagged rocks. But the freedom and ease 
with which she picked her way with almost noiseless tread, 
might have deepened the impression that in some occult 
manner she was akin to the wilderness in which she seemed 
so much at home. Having crossed a rocky hill, she entered 
a grassy foot-path, and soon approached a dwelling whence 
gleamed a faint light. Though her steps apparently gave 
forth no sound, they were heard, for suddenly innumerable 
echoes filled the silent valley, and two dogs, that must have 
been large and fierce, judging from their deep baying, came 
bounding toward her. With a low laugh she said : 

“Here’s ‘much ado about nothing.’ There, there. 
Tiger and Bull ; two precious fools you have made of your- 
selves, not to know me.” 

The great dogs fawned at her feet and licked her hands, 
and, by the humblest canine apologies, sought forgiveness 
for their rude greeting. 

The light from within fell upon the somewhat haggard 
and startled face of a man who stood upon the door-step 
and peered out into the darkness. 

“It’s only I, father and in a moment the girl was at 
his side. 


F£/^A AND HER HOME. 


13 


The man responded but slightly to her caress, and, enter- 
ing the one large living-room of the cottage, sat down, with- 
out a word, in its most shadowy corner, seemingly finding 
something congenial in its gloom. 

“ What has kept you so late, Vera?'" asked a woman 
who was taking from a rude cupboard the slender materials 
of the evening meal. 

“ I was watching a queer little sail-boat, mother.’" 

“ Sail-boat, sail-boat ; has it landed near us ?’" asked the 
man, starting up. 

“ No, father. I watched till it disappeared down the 
river,’" said the girl, soothingly. 

“ That’s a good child. Still it does not signify ; no one 
could have any business with me. ’ ’ 

But the slight tremor of excitement in the girl’s tone 
caused the mother to give her a quick, searching glance, 
and she saw that something unusual had occurred. 

Vera looked smilingly and significantly into the pale, 
anxious face turned to her, and her glance said, “ I will 
tell you all by-and-by. ” 

The woman continued her tasks, though in a manner so 
feeble as to indicate that the burden of life was growing too 
heavy to be borne much longer, while Vera assisted her with 
the quickness of youth and the deftness of experience. 

From a little “ lean-to” against the side of the house, 
used as a kitchen, an aged negress now appeared. A scar- 
let handkerchief formed a sort of turban above her wrinkled 
visage. She was tall, but bent with years, and there was a 
trace of weird dignity in her bearing, that was scarcely in 
keeping with her menial position. 

“ Did de young missis bring anyting?” she asked. 

“Nothing, Gula, ” said the young girl, lightly. “The 
unmannerly fish laughed me to scorn. Though I tempted 
them above with a lily bud, and beneath with a wriggling 


14 


NEA/i! TO NATURE'S HEART. 


angle-worm, not one would come home with me. They 
were afraid of you, Gula. ’ * 

“ Den dare’s nothin’ for supper but milk and bread,” 
muttered the old woman. 

” It will suffice for me. To morrow I will be up with 
the lark, and have a dish of strawberries for breakfast.” 
And she hummed to herself : 

“ I know the bank whereon they grow — 

A thing Will Shakspeare does not know.” 

The mother looked at her fondly, but her smile ended in 
a sigh. With her, almost everything in life was now ending 
with a sigh. 

The frugal repast being ready, the father was summoned, 
but before he would leave his partial concealment, he asked 
Vera to close the window-shutters, so as to preclude the 
possibility of any one looking in from the outer darkness. 
The man seemed haunted by some vague fear which was 
not shared by the rest of the family, but which, in his case, 
was tacitly recognized and humored. He ate his supper 
hurriedly, and then retired again to his dusky corner, where 
he sat the remainder of the evening, silent, save when 
spoken to by his wife and daughter, who evidently tried to 
retain him as part of the family circle, though he morbidly 
shrank within himself. 

The mother and daughter were left alone at the table, at 
which they sat even after Gula had removed to the kitchen 
the slight remnants of the meal. A dip-candle burned 
dimly between them, and lighted up, but with deep con- 
trasts of shadow, two remarkable faces — not such as one 
would expect to find in a rude log cabin of the wilderness ; 
for the uncertain rays revealed the fact, though disguised by 
many a dainty rural device, that the walls of the dwelling 
were of rough-hewn logs. But the homely surroundings 


FE/^A AND HER HOME, 


15 


only brought out more clearly the unmistakable refinement 
of the faces of mother and daughter, now turned toward 
each other in a subtle interchange of sympathy that scarcely 
needed words. They seemed to have formed the habit of 
communicating with each other by significant glances and 
little signs apparent to no one save themselves, and there 
existed between them a love so deep and absorbing that it 
was ever a source of tranquil pleasure to look into each 
other’s eyes. This silent communion was rendered neces- 
sary in part, because there was much of which they could 
not speak in the presence of the father and husband in his 
present warped, morbid condition of mind. To her mother 
Vera embodied her name, and was truth itself, revealing, 
like her playmates the mountain streams, everything in her 
crystal thoughts. To her father she was equally true, but 
was so through a system of loving disguises and conceal- 
ments. If she had told him of her adventure of the after- 
noon he would have been greatly excited, and sleep were 
banished for the night. 

The mother saw that Vera had a confidence to give, and 
quietly waited until they should be alone ; and as she 
looked tenderly upon her child, her pale, spiritual face 
might have realized the ideal of pure motherly love. As 
such, in after years, Vera remembered it. It was well that 
she should look long and fondly upon those dear features, 
for in their thin transparency they promised soon to become 
only a memory. 

But Vera knew nothing of death. She had never seen a 
pallid, rigid human face, and the thought that the dear face 
before her could ever become such, was too dreadful to 
have even entered her mind. 

The mother, with a secret and growing uneasiness, had 
been conscious of her failing powers. Her usual household 
cares became daily more burdensome. She panted for 


i6 


NEAR TO NATURES HEART. 


breath, after tasks that once seemed light. Her rest, instead 
of being sweet and refreshing, was broken through the long 
night by a hacking cough, which the bland air of June did 
not remove as she had fondly hoped. But, in the strange 
delusion of her disease, she ever expected to be “ better in 
a few days," and she never had the courage to blanch the 
joyous face of Vera with the vague fear which in spite of 
her hopes sometimes found entrance to her mind. The 
malady had been so slow and insidious in its advances, that 
Vera had not noticed the daily yet almost imperceptible 
changes, but old Gula sometimes shook her head ominously, 
though she said nothing. The husband was too deeply 
shadowed by one oppressive fear to have thought for any- 
thing else ; and so the poor exile (for such she was) uncon- 
sciously to herself and those she loved, daily drew nearer to 
the only home where the heart is at rest. 

Upon a rustic shelf above Vera’s head were two books 
that originally had been quite handsomely bound. They 
were the products of a time when things were made to last ; 
and yet such had been their vicissitudes and constant use 
that they looked old and worn. They were the only books 
Vera had ever seen. They had been the story-books of her 
childhood, and long before she could read them, her mother 
had beguiled her by the hour with their marvelous tales. 
They had been the school-books in which she had conned 
her letters ; and, following her mother’s pointing finger, she 
had spelled her way through them, when the long and un- 
pronounceable words were to her lisping tongue what the 
rugged boulders around their home were to her little feet. 
She had often stumbled over both ; still she had learned to 
love the mossy boulders and the equally formidable words, 
and the latter had gradually become stepping-stones to her 
thoughts. These books were now yearly developing for her 
deeper and richer meanings, and were having no small part 


V£J?A AND HER HOME. 


17 


in the formation of her character. The gilt letters on their 
backs were not so faded and worn but that the titles could 
still be read — the ‘ ‘ Plays of William Shakspeare/'’ and ‘ ‘ Holy 
Bible." 

The former had been given to Vera’s mother in other 
and happier days, and in another land, by the man, now 
but a wreck of the handsome, spirited youth, who then gave 
glances and words with the gift, which she valued more than 
the book. She had given him the Bible in return, and he 
formerly had read it somewhat for her sake, though seldom 
for its own. The Bible was much the smaller and plainer 
volume, and suggested that the purse of the donor might 
not have been as large as her love. In the sudden and dire 
emergency which made them exiles, these two gifts of affec- 
tion had been hastily snatched among the. few other things 
they had been able to take, in the confused and hurried 
moment of departure. 

At a sign from her mother, Vera took down this Bible, 
and drawing the failing candle nearer, read a few verses from 
the 14th chapter of St. John, commencing, “ Let not your 
heart be troubled. ’ ’ At the close of each day, for many sad 
and anxious years, the poor woman had tried to sustain her 
faith by these divine, reassuring words. They were read 
first, not only for her own support, but in the hope that 
they might have a soothing, calming effect upon the dis- 
quieted mind of her husband. To Vera, also, she believed 
that they might eventually become a legacy of hope and 
strength. After they were read, some other passage was 
also chosen. 

The mother had opened the kitchen door that Gula might 
hear, if she would, since she never could be persuaded to be 
present at the family altar. Gula had been stolen from her 
African home, where, as she once hinted in a moment of 
anger, she had possessed some rude and savage kind of roy- 


i8 


ATEA/^ TO NATURES HEART, 


alty, and since that time she had suffered cruelty and wrongs 
without stint from those who called themselves Christians ; 
thus she naturally chose to remain a pagan. 

As Vera read the sacred words, the mother’s face, where 
she sat, a little back from the light, was sweet and shadowy 
enough to be that of a guardian spirit. 

The corner in which the father remained had grown so 
dark that only the gleam of his restless eyes could be seen. 
Vera’s voice was sweet, low, and reverent. It was not a 
form, but a heartfelt service in which she was leading, and 
one that she knew to be dear to her mother. 

She made a pretty picture, with the dim candle lighting 
up her classic profile and a bit of her golden hair. All the 
rest was in partial and suggestive shadow. 

After the lesson of the day had been read, they sat a few 
moments in prayerful silence. With the shrinking timidity 
which some women find it impossible to overcome, this 
Christian wife had learned to pray unceasingly in her heart, 
but could never venture upon outspoken words. Her nature 
was gentleness itself, and strong only in its power to cling 
with unselfish, unfearing tenacity to those she loved. Had 
her husband been condemned to suffer any form of death, 
her meek spirit would have uttered no protest, but only 
force could have prevented her from sharing his fate. If, 
by interposing her own life she could save her daughter’s, 
she would give it up so naturally and instinctively that the 
thought of self sacrifice would not even occur to her. Years 
before, she had renounced, for the sake of her love, every- 
thing save honor ; and though knowing that exile and soon 
death itself would result, she never considered the possibility 
of any other course, but in resignation accepted what she 
regarded as her inevitable lot. Where she loved most, with 
the certainty of gravitation, her steps would follow, while the 
power remained. She was one whom the world would call 


F£/^A AND HER HOME. 


19 


weak, but whose strength God would honor, because pos- 
sessing in her humble sphere His loftiest attribute, patient, 
all-enduring love. 

Before seeking her own little nest, Vera went out to speak 
to the old negress, whom she found sitting on a low door- 
step, smoking her pipe. 

“ Art lonely, Gula ?” 

“ No, chile, I'se got past dat. Dare’s lots talkin' to ole 
Gula.’^ 

“ Why, I hear nothing save the whippoorwills, and the 
frogs in the marsh." 

" I doesn’t hear dem. De voices dat come to me come 
from far back o’ dese mountains. I isn’t lonely any mo’. ’’ 

“How queer!” said Vera musingly. “But you were 
lonely once, Gula?” 

“ Ves, chile ; for nigh on twenty summer and winter my 
heart was a-breakin’. I was so homesick like, dat I wanted 
to die ebery minute. Den I died. My heart was jus a 
heavy stun in my bres’ ; only my body was kind o’ half 
alive so it could work when dey whipped it. But de heart 
inside didn’t tink nuffin, nor feel nuffin, nor know nuffin. 
On a sudden, one night, I kind o’ woke up and heerd voices 
a callin’ me to run, and 1 got up and run, and trabbled for 
days and nights till I got here ; den de voices tole me to 
stop. And I’se a stoppin’ and a waitin’ to see what de 
voices say nex. ’ ’ 

“ I can’t understand it," said Vera wonderingly. 

“ No, chile, you needn’t try." 

“ Where do these voices come from ?" 

“ From way back o' dese hills^ — from farder dan de great 
water whar dem floatin’ miseries, dey call ships, go — from 
whar de sun shine hotter dan it did to-day, all de time. Oh, 
dis poor ole heart’s nebber been warm since dey carried 
me, screamin’ , on de floatin’ misery. Go to bed, chile, go 


20 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


to bed ; ole Gula hopes you’se body’ll nebber be alive arter 
your heart’s dead/’ 

“ Poor old Gula,” said Vera, in a voice so gentle, so 
sympathetic, that it would have moved the stoniest nature. 

' ‘ I’m very sorry for you. ‘ Let not your heart be troubled, ’ 
Gula. ’ ’ 

The old woman was touched by the young girl’s compas- 
sion ; but she had a strange, rugged pride, that prevented 
her from ever receiving openly what still was balm in secret 
Probably the voices that had induced the fugitive to stay at 
the humble cottage were those of her present mistress and 
Vera, speaking in the long unheard accents of kindness, 
though in the poor creature’s disordered fancy they had 
blended with those she imagined coming from her old tropi- 
cal home. Therefore, the roughness with which she said, 

” Dare, dare, chile, none o’ dat, don’t keep you’se 
mudder waitin’ ; go to bed,” was only assumed to disguise 
the sudden relenting which usually takes place when the 
flintiest heart is touched by the potent wand of kindness. 

” Good night, Gula,” said Vera. ” Among your voices 
you shall always hear mine ; and I hope it won’t be cross 
often and she followed her mother, who had already gone 
on before to her child’s sleeping apartment. 

It was as strange a little nook as one could imagine ; and 
it Vera had been a nymph of the mountains, as her appear- 
ance had suggested to Saville, this resting-place would have 
been in harmony. The rude cottage had been built at the 
sloping base of the rocky height crowned in later years with 
the frowning walls of Fort Putnam. Just above the cabin 
on the southern side, a huge crag projected so far from the 
rocky steep as to form a natural shelter or sort of cave. 
This little niche had been enlarged by excavation, and the 
granite eaves extended by rough-hewn boards, so as to form 
quite a roomy apartment, which Vera and her mother had 


FE/^A AND HER HOME. 


21 


disguised into as dainty a rural bower as any grotto of the 
Grecian nymphs. It was connected with the main living- 
room of the cabin by a covered way securely thatched and 
protected at the sides by heavy logs, fastened in the securest 
manner. Indeed the entire dwelling had been built with 
almost the strength of a fortress, and Vera’s father seemed 
to find a growing satisfaction in strengthening its various 
parts with stone and wood. The brief ascent to her “ nest” 
— as the young girl called it— was made by stone steps. 
When her mother grew feeble, Vera brought home a slender 
grapevine that she had found swinging from a lofty forest- 
tree, and stretched it from her door to that of the living- 
room. By laying hold of this, the ascent could be made 
with greater ease. A stout cord passed along the roof, so 
that if anything happened, summons or alarm could be 
given instantly. But though the poor man who arranged 
all these precautions seemed burdened with an increasing 
dread, the years had passed, and they had been unmolested 
in their wilderness retreat. 

The mother placed the candle on a little bureau, and sat, 
panting from her climb, on the edge of Vera’s couch. 7Te 
daughter drew a bench forward, and dropping on it, leaned 
her arms on her mother’s lap and looked up into her face 
as she did when a little child. Indeed, in her guileless 
innocence and ignorance of the world from which she had 
ever been secluded, she was still a child, though fully sixteen. 

“ Now, mother, you have been working too hard again 
to-day,” she said reproachfully. “ See how tired you are.” 

“ No, dear — I am only a little breathless — from climbing 
to your nest. I get out of breath so easily of late. Now 
tell me what has happened.” 

Vera described her adventure of the afternoon, which in 
her tranquil life was a notable event. She dwelt long and 
somewhat admiringly upon the stranger’s appearance and 


22 


JV£A/^ TO NATURE'S HEART, 


manner, especially his act of putting the water-lily bud in 
his button* hole. 

“ If he loves flowers, mother, he can’t be bad.” 

But it was upon the notes of his flute that she descanted 
most enthusiastically. “ And do you know, mother, he 
played the same air that I had been singing, and which you 
taught me years ago. But he must have thought me wild 
as a hawk.” 

“ No, dear, as timid as a dove.” 

” Well, I was greatly startled at first. When I got a good 
look at him I was not so much afraid. But you, and espe- 
cially father, have so often warned me against making 
acquaintances. You don’t think I was rude, now ?” 

“ No, dear, no more than the birds that take wing when 
you come too near.” 

‘ ‘ The birds are getting very presuming, mother ; they 
either think that I am one of them or not worth minding. 
They only cock their little heads on one side and give me a 
saucy look, and then go about their business just as if I were 
not near. ’ ’ 

” They know and do not fear their friends,” said the 
mother abstractedly, ” and you have been their harmless 
playmate so long that they know all about you.” And the 
poor woman gave a long sigh. 

‘‘ Now what does that mean, mother?” 

‘ ‘ That you cannot always have such innocent and harm- 
less companions. You are growing up, Vera. You cannot 
always be a little wild-flower of the woods. You must make 
acquaintances erelong. It is needful that you should. 
But how are you to make them ? Where are you to find 
them ? We are strangely situated. I wish we had some 
good neighbors, and your father did not feel as he does.” 

” Ought I then to have stayed and spoken to this young 
man ?” 


V£J^A AND HER HOME. 


23 


“ No, darling, you did right. He was an utter stranger. 
And yet such are all the world. The ordinary ties which 
unite us to our fellow creatures seem utterly broken, and 
our isolation is so complete that I see no escape from it. 
P'or myself I do not mind it. I am content. But for your 
sake, Vera, I do indeed wish it were otherwise.'’ 

“ I too am content, mother. The woods are full of play- 
mates for me, and we chatter away to each other as merrily 
as the day is long. We are beginning to understand each 
other too. Do you know, mother, that the sounds of nature 
seem a sort of language which I am fast learning ? I went 
out on the hills the other day after the shower, and found a 
brook and a brown* thrush singing a duet together, and I 
sat down and mocked them till I learned what they were 
saying” — and in almost perfect mimicry she first gave the 
gurgling murmur of the stream and then the mellow whistle 
of the thrush. 

“ You are a strange child, Vera. But what did the brook 
and bird say ? I do not understand their language.” 

“Why, it’s plain as can be. They said, ‘Cheer up, 
Vera. Let not your heart be troubled. After the shower 
comes the sunshine.' What else could they mean There 
was the brook sparkling in the sunlight, and singing the 
louder for the shower ; and there was the little bird, which 
neither the lightning nor the rain had hurt. ” 

Tears came into the mother's eyes, and kissing her child, 
she said : 

“ Good night, Vera ; you are so innocent that God talks 
with you, as He did with Adam and Eve in the garden.” 

The mother returned to the main room, which was also 
used as a sleeping apartment. Gula had already retired by 
some rude steps to her loft overhead. 

With the dawn of the next day, the mother was awakened 
by Veia’s receding voice, mingling with the songs of her 


24 


N£A/? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


music- masters, the birds, and knew that she had gone for 
the promised strawberries. Before very long, she returned 
with an oddly constructed basket of broad leaves, heaped 
up with the daintiest fruit of the year, and a moment later 
the cabin was filled with their wild aroma, as, with scarlet 
fingers, Vera quickly prepared them for breakfast. 

“ How kind it was of you to get us these berries,'’ said 
her mother. “ I thought I had lost my appetite altogether, 
but these taste so good that I must be better. Perhaps they 
will make me well.” 

The flush of pleasure that came into Vera’s face vied with 
the ruby fruit, and she said, joyously : 

“ You shall have them, mother, as long as there is one 
to be found in the shadiest nook.” 

The light of day now revealed clearly the character of 
their abode, which, in its exterior, did not differ greatly 
from the ordinary log cabin of the frontier. There had 
evidently been an effort to make it exceedingly strong, and 
on every side were loop-holes, through which could be 
passed the muzzle of a rifle. 

But the usual bareness and unsightliness of these primitive 
dwellings had been quite removed by festoons of the Ameri- 
can woodbine (or ivy) which Vera had planted at the cor- 
ners, and trained along the eaves and to the very ridge. 
There were also attempts at flower-beds, in which she had 
sought to tame some of her wild favorites of the woods. 

But the interior was an interesting study, from the effort 
of refinement, everywhere manifest, to triumph over the 
rudest materials. Such of the furniture as had been bought, 
was strong and plain, and had evidently been selected from 
motives of economy. This had been added to and supple- 
mented as far as the ingenuity of the inmates permitted, and 
on every side were seen pretty little things that were not 
childish, and yet would please a child. 


F£/CA AND HER HOME. 


25 


Autumn leaves, still brilliant, which Vera had pressed, 
with great pains, between dry leaves preserved for the pur- 
pose, festooned the unsightly walls, producing an effect that 
gave the young girl more content then Gobelin tapestry gives 
to its princely possessors. Mingling with these festoons 
were button- balls, cut the preceding autumn from the plane- 
tree, and bright red berries. In one corner was a huge 
hornet’s nest, suspended from the branch where its savage 
little architects had built it the year before, and whose con- 
struction Vera had watched with great interest, until, in the 
fall, the paper citadel, that an army would hesitate to attack, 
was evacuated ; then she had carried it home as a trophy. 
But she found that it still contained a small garrison, which 
occasioned no little commotion as they recovered from their 
torpor in the warmth of the room. On a spray beside this 
fortress, was placed, for contrast, an abode of peace — a hum- 
ming-bird’s tiny nest. In place of prosaic pegs and hooks, 
the antlers of the stag were fastened here and there, and 
served many a useful purpose. Rustic brackets, and a 
cross of gray bark, with a mossy base, divested the apart- 
ment of all appearance of the squalid poverty that often 
characterizes the pioneer’s cabin. 

But the principal feature was the wide stone fireplace into 
which for many years Vera could pass without stooping, 
and in the corner of which she still sat on winter evenings, 
reading by the light of the blazing fire, her inexhaustible 
story book, the “ Plays of William Shakspeare.” Over the 
hearth was a great iron crane ; and it was a proud day for ^ 
Vera when she learned to relieve her mother by swinging it 
in and out, deftly hanging thereon the sooty kettle, without 
smirching her hands or dress. Above a rude mantel, on 
which Vera had placed some odd little ornaments gathered 
in her rambles, were suspended a long rifle of very fine 
workmanship, and a silver-mounted fowling-piece, which 


26 


JVEA/i TO NATURE'S HEART. 


the exiles had brought with them, rightly estimating their 
value when seeking a refuge in the wilderness. The shot- 
gun was light but strong, and of exquisite finish, and had 
in other days brought down many a pheasant in English 
parks. It carried just as truly now, and Vera had learned to 
be almost as unerring in its use as her father. In conse- 
quence, a plump partridge frequently graced their board that 
too often was meagre enough. For a large part of the year 
game was their principal food, as her father supported his 
family by hunting and trapping. But of late he had grown 
so moody and uncertain in his actions, that for days he 
would sit in his shadowy corner brooding over some dark 
secret of the past. It would then devolve on Vera alone to 
supply the needs of the household, and at times the poor 
child’s heart was heavy, as weary and discouraged she re- 
turned in the evening only to report her ill-success. Then 
her father would rouse up as if his manhood were struggling 
against the paralysis creeping over his mind, and he would 
be more like his former self. But as Vera grew older, and 
iiiore acquainted with the habits and haunts of game, and 
learned in what waters to drop her line successfully, she 
became more self-reliant and confident that she could at 
least maintain a supply of food if the worst came to the 
worst. On days when the man’s mind was most unclouded, 
he would, at his wife’s solicitation, take the skins and prod- 
ucts of the chase to some village down the river, and barter 
them for such things as were needed. A little of the hoard 
of gold which they had brought with them still remained, 
and was kept for some emergency of the future. 

Thus the years passed on, and Vera was ceasing to be a 
child in appearance, though still a child in guileless sim- 
plicity, and content with the pleasures and duties which had 
filled her time thus far. 


THE ICONOCLASTS. 


27 


CHAPTER III. 


THE ICONOCLASTS. 



HE northern breeze caused Saville’s boat to glide rap- 


X idly through the looming shadows of the lower 
Highlands, and in comparatively brief time lights glimmered 
invitingly from the village of Peekskill, which was situated 
at the head of a wide bay upon the eastern shore. Here he 
decided to seek refreshment and spend the night, intending 
to pursue his homeward journey the following morning. 

The episode of the afternoon had formed a pleasing but 
temporary diversion to the thoughts it had interrupted ; but 
now, with increasing power to pain and agitate, they came 
trooping back. In the consciousness of solitude and in the 
enshrouding darkness, he made less effort at self-control. 
His features were distorted by contending emotions, and he 
often gave vent to passionate exclamations. It was evident 
that a painful question was pressing upon him for immediate 
solution, and that the results of his action in any case would 
be very serious. 

But by the time he reached the rude wharf he regained 
his self-command, and having moored his boat, sought a 
dwelling which combined the character of farm-house and 
tavern. Here he received a welcome that was but in part 
professional, for in those days of limited travel, a stranger 
was an event, and a guest in reality as well as in name, 
being often made much of, and becoming an object of 
absorbing interest, it might be added also, of curiosity, to 
his entertainers. 


28 


J\r£AJ? TO NATURE'S HEART, 


Saville found the little inn already in a state of excitement 
and bustle over the arrival of an old acquaintance of his 
own, a wealthy, pleasure-loving young gentleman from the 
city below, who was off on a fishing excursion, and who 
eagerly sought to gain Saville as a companion. 

“ What is the news from the army before Boston V' asked 
Saville, gloomily. 

‘ ‘ ‘ The army before Boston ' be hanged, and the army 
in Boston also. I could not sit down to dinner but a fire- 
brand of a patriot would pluck one sleeve, and demand, 

‘ Are you for Liberty ? ’ and an ancient fossil who had 
brushed against a duke, or mayhap a duchess, would pluck 
the other sleeve, and querulously question, ‘ Are you not 
for the King .? ’ It was in vain that I anathematized both, 
and said, ‘ No, I’m for dinner.’ There is no such thing as 
peace down there, unless you are ranting on one side or the 
other. So I snatched my fishing tackle, and showing a 
clean pair of heels, am here among the mountains. It’s a 
confounded poor world for a man to enjoy himself in. 
There are always two parties in it bound to devour each 
other, and if you won’t raven on one side or the other, 
they’ll both turn in and rend you. I don’t care whether 
the laws are made in Philadelphia or London, if they will 
only let me alone. There, I’m through with the accursed 
squabbles of the hour. I’m here to get rid of them, and 
intend for the next few days to forget the existence of both 
Parliament and Congress. So come with me, and keep 
out of purgatory as long as you can.” 

In spite of his prolonged mental conflict, Saville still felt 
himself unequal to solve the question that burdened him ; 
and so to gain time and distract his thoughts, he complied 
with his friend’s wish. 

On the following morning they started, equipped for the 
sport. It was the Sabbath, but in Saville' s estimation the 


THE ICONOCLASTS. 


29 


day was no more sacred than would be a Decadi of the com- 
ing French Revolution. He had lived in infidel France 
sufficiently long to regard the Sabbath as a relic of super- 
stition. He was a disciple of the “ New Philosophy,’’ and 
had faith in naught save man, and man was a law unto 
himself. 

But the sport which completely absorbed his companion 
dragged heavily with Saville, and after a few days he returned 
to his boat, resolving to put off his decision no longer ; so 
the latter part of the week saw him again beating southward 
against the wind with many a long tack, as the river broad- 
ened before him. 

Saville’s position was a trying one, and yet not peculiar 
in that day when the plowshare of division ran, not only 
through, communities, social circles, and churches, but also 
through families, severing the closest ties. In order that 
his present circumstances and character may be better un- 
derstood, it will be necessary to take a brief glance into the 
past. 

Theron Saville combined both the French and Dutch ele- 
ments in his parentage. On his father’s side he came from 
that grand old Huguenot stock which has largely leavened 
for good the American character. He had thus inherited a 
legacy of prayer and sacred memories from his ancestry; 
and might if he would, receive the blessing which descends 
to children’s children : a “ cove;?ant-keeping God” would 
faithfully seek to reclaim him from evil. But he had utterly 
abandoned the faith of his fathers, and was now an open 
unbeliever. 

His moral state was the natural result of the influences he 
had fallen under during his education. In accordance with 
a custom quite common among patrician families in colonial 
days, he had been sent to Europe to finish his studies. 
After a few years at an English university he went to Paris to 


30 JV£A/^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 

acquire his profession, that of military and civil engineering. 
But his tastes did not lead in the direction of exact and 
practical science, and he appreciated the French opera far 
more than French roads and fortifications. But it was the 
new and skeptical literature of that chaotic age that chiefly 
fascinated him. The brilliant theorists and iconoclasts who 
were then, with jest and infinite wit, recklessly sapping the 
foundations of the slowly built structures of human belief, 
of social custom, and of established government, seemed to 
him the heroes of the world. He, as little as they, foresaw 
the crashing ruin for which they were preparing. Bigoted 
violence had succeeded only too well in stamping out and 
exiling the Huguenot element, and what then passed for 
religion in France, was such a wretched imposition as to be 
despised even by its consecrated priests. Social distinctions 
were arbitrary and unnatural. Etiquette ruled in the place 
of fidelity and principle, and behind this tinsel mask gross 
license rioted. Government had become simply the oppres- 
sion of the many by the few — an organized system to rob the 
people that the titled might indulge in unbounded extrava- 
gance. The corner-stone, which is the family, with its sacred 
and guarded rights, had crumbled, and the whole social and 
political fabric was consequently tottering in inevitable weak- 
ness. The character of the times made it far easier to scoff 
and strike at all institutions that should be sacred than to 
reform them ; and the leading minds of the day were great 
only in their genius for satire and innovation. But it was 
the fearful degeneracy in the institutions themselves that 
gave point to the sarcasm, and it was their crumbling weak- 
ness that made blows, which now seem puny, then to appear 
herculean. 

Young Saville, unschooled by experience, had just the 
temperament to be carried away by the railing and irreverent 
spirit of the age. Naturally visionary, enthusiastic, and 


THE ICONOCLASTS. 


31 


gifted with far more imagination than judgment, he reveled 
in the “Atheistic Philosophy,'" and exulted over it as the 
groundwork of a new and better order of things. Voltaire 
enchained him by his boundless wit. Diderot, and even 
Helvetius with his gross, materialistic theory, that sensation 
originates all that there is in man, became his masters, w'hile 
in political creed he was a disciple of Jean Jacques Rous- 
seau. Liberty, which was of an impossible kind — liberty, 
which from the absence of safeguards and foundations must, 
and in fact did, degenerate into the wildest license, became 
his dream ; and he hoped to become eventually an apostle 
of this French ideal of freedom, in his own land. 

Yet when the time came for Saville to return to New 
York, he had not become utterly vitiated by the evil influ- 
ences which were then demoralizing a nation. Something 
in the old Huguenot blood and in his early training still 
remained in his nature as a germ that might be developed 
into healthful growth. He was not false, though unre- 
strained by religion, or even by what was regarded as moral- 
ity in his own land ; he accepted the world’s code of honor 
and unlike the world in which he had been living, was true 
to it. His word bound him ; and though capable of very 
wrong action, he shrank from anything mean, base, or un- 
grateful. He was not coldly, selfishly, and deliberately 
depraved at heart. He scoffed with his favorite author, 
Voltaire, not at what he believed sacred, but at what, in that 
false age, pretended to sacredness, and was in fact a solemn 
and venerable farce. The truth back of this, which had 
been corrupted or abandoned altogether, he did not recog- 
nize nor even believe in its existence. A false priesthood 
had made religion a byword and a hissing. As ignorant 
and superficial as the leaders of opinion, he did not distinr 
guish the purer faith of his fathers from the gross super- 
stition from which it had separate4 itself, but condeinned 


32 


NEAJ^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


all religion as the folly of credulity, the evidence of a weak 
and unenlightened mind. 

He was heartily in sympathy with Rousseau’s best char- 
acteristic, hatred of the artificial and unnatural, and joined 
in his protest against the absurd and arbitrary tyranny of 
etiquette and monstrous custom. He believed with the great 
innovator, that after the rags had been taken from the peas- 
ant, and the titles and court dress lifted from the noble, in 
each case remained that essential atom of society — man ; 
and he held that this human unit, with its innate rights and 
qualities, naturally developed, must be the starting point in 
the reorganization of the political fabric. 

He could not then see that he and his teachers would 
ever build in vain, even were they to attempt reconstruc- 
tion ; for they ignored man’s moral and spiritual nature and 
its needs. Let man build his side of the arch never so well, 
the work would crumble, because the opposite side, which 
is God and the pure morality of his law, and the key-stone, 
which is intelligent faith and obedience, would be utterly 
lacking. 

But there was hope for Saville, because he was so sincere 
in his skepticism ; because he accepted so enthusiastically 
theories, the majority of which now have in history a record 
like that of brilliant meteors only. He had not reached the 
most hopeless of mental attitudes, that of coldly doubting 
everything, nor had he sunk into the apathy of discourage- 
ment, or plunged into the recklessness of those who see 
nothing good or sure save present gratification. 

His authors were demi-gods, and adorned a temple of 
fame which he might enter. He was not near enough to 
know the selfishness, meanness, and often baseness of their 
lives. If he had read the confessions ot Rousseau, he 
might not so readily have become his disciple. The fact 
that he could honestly believe in these writers and their 


THE ICONOCLASTS. 


33 


teachings, proved him capable of accepting the truth with 
equal heartiness, when once apprehended. 

Saville heard with pleasure of the growing restlessness in 
the American colonies under British rule, and ardently 
hoped that he might there become a leading advocate of the 
broad liberty of the new philosophy. 

It became his favorite dream that he might be one of the 
founders of a republic in the new world, in which liberty 
and equality should be the corner-stones, human reason the 
sole architect, and nature the inspiration. During his voy- 
age home, he spent much of his time in the imaginary con- 
struction of this Utopia of the future, in which he hoped to 
have no mean place. Nor was it at all surprising that one 
of his age and temperament should have fallen completely 
under the influence of the philosophy that was then sweep- 
ing over the world. 


34 


N£A/^ TO NATURE'S HEART, 


CHAPTER IV, 


it 


FOR WORSE. " ’ 


AVIlXE had not been long in his native city before an 



event occurred that changed the spirit of his dreams, 
or rather blended them with others of a different nature. 
The nebulous goddess of liberty, at whose feet he had been 
worshiping, was exchanged for a creature of flesh and blood, 
earthy indeed, material even to her mind. But Saville had 
a faculty of seeing things, not as they were, but through a 
transfiguring mist of his own imagination. 

During his voyage home, his father had died suddenly, 
and, in consequence, young Saville, for a few months im- 
mediately after his return, was much secluded from social 
and political life. Sorrow renders the heart more tender 
and receptive, and there were long and vacant days to be 
beguiled. His mother, who had inherited the thrifty traits 
of her Dutch ancestry, availed herself of this opportunity to 
secure an alliance which worldly wisdom would commend, 
inasmuch as the young lady in question was the heiress of 
property which would double the large wealth of her son, and 
thus, of course, double his happiness. Their mutual acres 
were so situated that they could be joined together with 
great advantage. Whether the moral and mental qualities 
of the parties themselves were equally adapted to union, was 
not considered, and indeed seldom is, by your sagacious 
match-maker, who to the end of lime will be filled with 
self-congratulation on having united estates. That two poor 


FOR WORSE. 


35 


souls must henceforth dwell in purgatorial fires of discord, 
or become polished icicles under the steady frost of indiffer- 
ence, is a mere matter of sentiment. Two acres instead ol 
one is a solid consideration, and ought to satisfy any 
heart. 

Mrs. Saville loved her son after her fashion, and was 
serving him, as she supposed, in the best and most enduring 
manner. She was aware that society would regard the 
match as brilliant ; and to have the world nod approval was 
as great a thing a hundred years ago as to-day. She had 
met the parents, the uncles, and aunts of the coveted neiress, 
in solemn conclave on the subject, and _ound them quite as 
ready to enter into the arrangement as herself. With many 
fine speeches they disguised the property considerations 
uppermost in each mind, and it was agreed that the young 
lady’s disposition should be delicately inclined to assist. 
That willful factor in the problem, however, bluntly said, 
“I’ll wait and see him first. ” 

This very natural decision disturbed Mrs. Saville but 
little ; for she knew that unless her son had changed greatly, 
his appearance would be in his favor. Her chief ground of 
anxiety was the action of the young man himself. 

“ Men are so unreasonable,’’ she said ; “ but unless 
Theron is utterly blind to his own interests, he must see 
things as we do. The young lady I have chosen for him is 
rich, handsome, and of one of the first families in the 
colony. Indeed her relatives in England are titled.’’ 

All this was true. Mrs. Saville had weighed externals 
carefully. Julia Ashburton was very handsome after her 
type and style. The prudent mother had considered every- 
thing save the viewless, subtle spirit which dwelt within the 
beauty, and which would prove, to the sorrow of all con- 
cerned, the spirit of a Tartar. 

Verily Saville was utterly blind to his own interests ; for. 


36 


TO NATURE'S HEART 


soon after his return, he delighted his mother and the other 
schemers by action that accorded with their plans. 

Miss Ashburton was eminently gifted with the power to 
awaken passion ; and in one who, like Theron Saville, saw 
everything through the transfiguring haze of his own fancy, 
she could even inspire an approach to love. But a man 
who desired a wife, a home, and domestic peace, would 
look askance at her. Her black eyes were too near together, 
and emitted scintillations rather than the pure, steady light 
of a womanly nature. They could fascinate and beguile 
with something of a serpent’s power, but they would drop 
abashed before the searching gaze of an honest man. Her 
forehead was none too low, but it was narrow. The de- 
velopment of her lower face was full ; not too much so, 
perhaps, for sensuous beauty, but to a close observer it 
would suggest the trait of stubbornness, and the possibility 
that passion might triumph over all restraint. But it was 
the perfection of her form — which she was not at all chary 
In displaying — and her grace of carriage, which constituted 
her chief attractions. She was as lithe and supple as a 
leopard, as well as feline in many of her qualities. 

But Saville glorified her into ideal womanhood, and she 
for a time fostered his delusion. Having seen the hand- 
some young stranger, who possessed all the courtly bearing 
and polish that could be acquired in French salons, she 
readily joined in the family conspiracy. She was as gentle 
and sympathetic as it was in her nature to be, and gave him 
most of her time. A spirit less exuberant than Saville’ s 
would have had a vague sense of dissatisfaction — a con- 
sciousness of something wanting in both her words and 
manner ; but his heart, generous to a fault, was deeply 
touched by her show of regard for his recent bereavement, 
and his love for her was mingled with gratitude. Soon she 
saw him a captive at her feet, and could make her own terms. 


FOR WORSE.'' 


37 


Duiing the long hours spent together, he, hoping to find 
a sympathetic and congenial spirit, had often enlarged (to 
her horror) on his favorite dreams of broad, democratic lib- 
erty and equality. He even permitted her to see his bitter 
hostility to everything that bore the name of religion, or 
superstition, as he would characterize it, and he regarded all 
forms of faith as the chosen instruments of tyranny. He 
believed that he could soon kindle in her an enthusiasm 
equal to his own for the new and glorious ideas that he had 
acquired abroad, and for the reception of which, he imag- 
ined, events were rapidly preparing America. 

Now, Miss Ashburton was, by nature and education, as 
hostile to these ideas as it was possible for any one to be. 
She was a Tory and royalist to her heart’s core, as were all 
her family ; and their descent from a titled house in Eng- 
land was the cherished source of their abounding pride. 

The girl to whom Saville often discoursed of his Utopian 
dreams, in a manner so rapt and pre occupied that he 
scarcely noted her effort to disguise her apathy and distaste, 
was not capable of enthusiasm for anything save herself. 
Selfishness, the bane of all character, especially of woman’s, 
had consumed the kindly endowments of her nature, and 
sometimes, when her lover’s face was flushed in the excite- 
ment of his own thronging thoughts, which were at least 
large and generous, if mainly erratic, there would come a 
crafty, and even vindictive, gleam into her eyes, which 
seemed to say, “ I will endure with such patience as I can, 
until the uniting links in the chain are forged, and then you 
must listen to me.” 

If, at times, her manner chilled him, and he imagined 
her lacking in sympathy, he consoled himself by the thought 
that she did not yet understand these great themes, and that 
he could not expect her to reach in a few weeks the ad- 
vanced views, which, in his case, had required years, and 


38 


NEAH TO NATURE'S HEART. 


that, too, where they formed the political and social atmos- 
phere in which men lived. 

As for Miss Ashburton, she soon perceived what she re- 
garded the weak point in his character- -the one that would 
give her the advantage in the inevitable conflict that must 
come after marriage ; and that was his loyalty to his word 
— a scrupulous, generous, though perverted sense of honor. 
He was a true gentleman, after the fashionable French ideal, 
and not according to the French reality. It was a sad fact, 
that in that debauched and chaotic age, the ninth command- 
ment, and, indeed, every other in the Decalogue, rested as 
lightly on the French conscience as the seventh. Of course 
there were many honorable exceptions, and to these Saville 
belonged. 

Therefore, when in due time he poured out his passion, 
she was full of demure hesitancy and doubt. “ Would he 
be faithful to her?” she asked. “ He had lived too long 
in Paris, where men’s eyes and fancies were given too great 
freedom. He believed in such new and strange French 
doctrines, which seemed to unsettle everything, even religion, 
and was captivated by French ideas in general. How could' 
she be sure that she had secured a steady, loyal English 
husband ?” 

In view of Saville’s theories and rhapsodies she might 
perhaps have urged these objections with some reason. 
But the astute maiden had no fears on these grounds. She 
was skillfully playing part of a pre-arranged game. She 
would bind him by many and varied pledges. She would 
keep him from the course on which his heart was bent, by 
promises that now seemed silken cords of love and loyalty, 
but would afterward prove galling fetters by which she would 
hold him captive under a merciless tyranny. 

Unsuspicious of her object, he gave her pledges innumer- 
able, which could readily be made to bear the meaning she 


FOR WORSE/* 


39 


designed, but which in his mind had no such purport. 
Having ensnared and woven a web around her victim, she 
gracefully permitted herself to be won. 

It was a rude awakening that Saville had from his delirium 
of love, and dream of inspiring sympathy in his career as an 
apostle of the broadest liberty, wherein all kings, human 
and divine, were to be overthrown. His wife had been 
under restraint too long already for one of her willful, self- 
pleasing nature, and she threw off the mask with unseemly 
haste. To his dismay he found that he had married a pretty 
bigot, who would not hear a word against church or state, 
the venerable abuses of which were even dearer to her than 
their excellencies. Nay, more, she told him that by all his 
oaths of loyalty to her he was bound to the Tory side, which 
was then rapidly becoming defined in distinction from the 
Whig, or patriot party ; and such was the ingenuity of her 
feminine tact, that in his bewilderment he half feared that 
she was right ; and that he, like the Hebrew slaves, would be 
compelled to build the structures he would gladly tear down. 

At first, he chafed like a lion in the toils ; but on every 
side she met him with the meshes of his own unwary prom- 
ises. In vain he protested that loyalty to her did not involve 
loyalty to institutions that he hated. 

“lam identified with these causes,'" she would coolly 
reply. 

By this chain of loyalty to her, she would even drag him 
to church, and made religion seem ten-fold more hateful by 
the farce she there enacted. His eyes were now opened, 
and he readily saw that she was a bigot to the forms of 
worship, and that the doctrines of her church were neither 
understood nor considered. Her spirit was that of the 
Italian bandit, who will shed his own blood to carry out the 
purposes of his priest, and the blood of any one else that 
his interest or revenge may require. 


40 


JVEAJi TO NATURE'S HEART. 


Thus the wretched months dragged on, and Saville was a 
moody captive. As the stirring events thickened which pre- 
pared the way for the overt acts of the Revolution, he was 
often greatly excited, and inclined to break his fetters ; but 
he was ever confronted by a will more resolute than his own. 

“To whom do you owe the more sacred duty,"’ she 
would ask ; “ this wretched cabal of blatant rebels who will 
find halters around their necks if they go much further, or 
your wife to whom you have pledged your honor 

His young friends in the patriot ranks were, greatly dis- 
appointed in him. Before marriage, his utterances had 
been pronounced and radical ; now he was silent and kept 
himself aloof. 

There were many sneers about the “ apron-strings of a 
Tory wife,” and the “ difference between large swelling 
words and the giving and taking of honest blows.” Some 
of these flings reached Saville, and stung him almost to 
frenzy. 

Of course anything like love or even passion died out 
between these two, whom relatives had so complacently 
matched, but who never could be mated. 

At first, Saville often appealed to her, earnestly and even 
passionately, to be a wife in reality, and not to thwart every 
hope and aspiration of his life. 

She would exasperate him by coolly replying, “ Only as 
I check and thwart your wild fancies and mad action can 
I be a true wife. Can’t you see that you are bent on ruin- 
ing us both ? Your mind is full of monstrous innovations. 
It is as if you should say in the dead of winter, I have a 
vague plan of a better home than this. Let me tear down 
our house, and I will build something different. Not while 
I keep my senses. What would our property be worth 
under the ‘ nouvelle ordre ’ as you call it V* 

“ But, madam, you do not consider me at all, but only 


**FOR WORSEN 


41 


the property. Am I to have no other career than that of a 
steward of our joint estates ?’ ’ 

“ That is better than a rebel’s halter. But let us end 
this useless discussion. You are a man of honor, and your 
word is pledged. ” 

The tidings of the battle of Lexington almost brought 
things to a crisis, and resulted in a stormy scene between 
husband and wife. His passion and invective were so ter- 
rible as to alarm even her for a time. And yet it only 
served to intensify the settled obstinacy of her nature. It 
also greatly increased a growing dislike for him, which 
needed only time to devdop into hatred. 

At the close of this memorable interview, she said harshly, 

“ I have endured this folly long enough. You must 
either give up this madness wholly and utterly, or else 
trample upon your honor and duty, and proclaim yourself 
a perjured villain. The day you join the rebel crew, you 
desert your wife ; and I will never so much as touch your 
hand again. 

‘ ‘ Do you mean that V * he asked hoarsely. 

“ The God you dare to despise is my witness. I do. '' 

“ Pitiful are the gods which attract such worshipers,'’ he 
sneered, and turning on his heel, he left her. 

He now saw that the crisis had indeed come. He had 
learned to know his wife sufficiently well to be aware that 
neither appeals nor circumstances could change her views 
and actions. She formed her opinions and purposes solely 
on the grounds of her own prejudices and wishes ; and a 
nature without generous impulses made her coldly obstinate 
in their maintenance. 

And now what should he do? The epithet “perjured 
villain ’’ stood in the path to patriotic action, like a grisly 
spectre, for perjured he knew that she would make him 
appear to her family. 


42 


J\r£A/^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


If his own interests only were involved, he would not 
have had a moment’s hesitancy. But was it right to risk 
his property and life in rebellion, and perhaps bring his 
mother to poverty and danger in her old age ? For she, 
too, by many an eloquent appeal assured him that he would 
be false to the sacred duties which he owed her in her 
widowhood ; and by the whole force of the filial bond, 
sought to chain his generous nature to inaction. He was 
thus torn by contending emotions, and tortured by conflict- 
ing claims. His cheeks grew wan, and his face haggard, in 
as cruel a captivity as ever man endured. But both mother 
and wife looked on unsympathetically. They were in the 
most aggravating condition of mind toward the sufferer, 
complacently sure that they were right and he wrong ; that 
they were acting for his best good, and that he, like a rash, 
foolish child, must be held in steady restraint until he 
should pass beyond the folly of his youth. Their treatment 
was as humiliating as it was galling. 

And yqt he did not know what was right, for he had no 
true moral standard. He had cast away that book of divine 
ethics, which clearly defines the relative force of each claim 
upon the conscience, and which, in an emergency like this, 
calmly lifts a man up to the sacrifice of himself and every 
earthly tie, that God may* be honored, and humanity at 
large served. 

But, in his creed, as we have seen, man was his own law ; 
and while his heart said, “ Join the cause of freedom,” a 
perverted sense of honor said, ” No, your word has made 
you the slave of your wife’s bigotry, and your mother’s 
fears. ’ ’ 

In vain he appealed to his mother, telling her how patri- 
otic ladies in the city were urging their sons to heroic 
action, and teaching even their little children the alphabet 
of liberty. She would only weep, and prophesy dismally. 


FOR worse:' 


43 


‘ ‘ When these mothers see their sons brought home 
mangled corpses, and their pleasant homes burned, and 
their children turned adrift upon the heartless world, they 
will shed tears of blood over their folly. I love you too 
well to permit you to rush to your own destruction as truly 
as to mine.’’ 

She always assumed that it would be impossible for him 
to go without her permission. 

His bitter reply at last became, “ Your love will be my 
death by slow torture.’' 

“ Nonsense, my child,'’ the old lady answered, almost 
petulantly. “You will soon see the day when you will 
thank me from the bottom of your heart for having kept 
you out of this wretched broil, which will ruin all who 
engage in it.’’ 

Thus there was not even sympathy for him at home, but 
only a riveting of the fetters which were eating into his very 
soul. So he came to indulge in long and lonely expedi- 
tions, by which he sought to escape, in some degree, the 
painful conditions of his city life. 


44 


JV£AJ^ TO NATURE'S HEART 


CHAPTER V. 


Washington’s sermon. 


HE explanatory digression of the two previous chapters 



X left Saville returning from one of these flights from the 
tormenting difficulties of his position. In due time he 
approached his native city, passing for miles along rugged 
and heavily wooded shores, that now are occupied by 
spacious ware-houses, and wharves crowded with the com- 
merce of the world. 

By the time he reached a point opposite where Canal 
Street now ends at the North River, his attention was drawn 
to a large flotilla, just leaving the Jersey shore. Remem- 
bering that it was Sunday afternoon, he was still more sur- 
prised to find that on grounds adjoining his own estate, near 
the foot of Murray Street of our day, an immense concourse 
of people were assembled. His boat soon reached his 
private quay, where he found his body-servant, who had 
come down to the shore, with thousands of others, to wit- 
ness some great event. 

His master’s face was sufficient interrogation to garrulous 
Larry, and he at once launched forth. 

“ Glad ter see yer honor. Yer jist in time. Faix, sure, 
there's great doin' s on foot. The rebels, as yer leddy calls 
'em, are gittin' bold as lions, an’ will eat us up if we don’t 
jine the bastes. I'm half a mind to turn rebel meself." 

“ Stop your nonsense, Larry. Who are those coming 
yonder across the river, and what does this concourse 
mean ?" 


WASHINGTON'S SERMON, 


45 


“ It manes more than I can tell ye in a breath, yer 
honor. But that’s Gin’ral Washington himself that’s a 
cornin’ there, and the rebels have knocked bloody blazes 
out of the red-coats in Bosting.” 

These tidings were sufficient to arouse Saville’s ardent 
spirit to the highest pitch of excitement. Mingling with 
the throng at the spot near which the disembarkation must 
occur, he met an acquaintance from whom he obtained a 
more satisfactory, if not succinct, explanation of what he saw. 

The battle of Bunker Hill had been fought, and behind 
a slight breast-work constructed by a few hours’ labor, his 
countrymen had met and thrice repulsed the veterans of 
Europe. In the torrent of blood which flowed that day, 
the Revolution had become a fact to which men could close 
their eyes no longer. The time had arrived when all must 
take sides ; and Saville recognized the truth that he must 
now choose with which party he would cast his lot. He 
was in an agony of conflicting feelings, and hoped that 
something in the stirring events of the hour might settle the 
question which he felt scarcely able to decide himself. 

He gained a standing-place upon a projecting rock on the 
beach, from which he had a good view both of the crowded 
shore and the approaching flotilla, and his enthusiastic 
nature kindled momentarily as he gazed on the scene. 

It was a lovely summer afternoon. The sun shone bright 
but not too warm, and gave a touch of beauty and light- 
someness even to things prosaic and commonplace in them- 
selves. But there was little that was ordinary on this occa- 
sion. There, facing him on a sloping bank, was such a 
throng of his fellow townsmen as he had never before seen 
together, their faces aflame with excitement. Near him 
were drawn up in martial array a thousand men with glitter- 
ing accoutrements, and bayonets whose points the declining 
sun tipped with fire. 


46 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


When the boats approached the land, even the heavy 
booming of the cannon was drowned by that most awe- 
inspiring sound of earth — the shout of a multitude, wherein 
the thought, the intense feeling and resolute purpose of the 
soul finds loud, vehement utterance. It is a sound that 
stirs the most sluggish nature. How then would the spirit 
of one be moved who, like Theron Saville, believed that the 
voice of the people was the voice of God ? He did not 
shout with the others. His excitement was too deep for 
noisy vent, but his face grew stern, and his lips compressed 
with his forming purpose. He was growing desperate, and 
was passing into a mood in which he was ready to trample 
every tie and extorted pledge under foot that he might join 
what he believed would prove a crusade against all tyrants, 
temporal and spiritual. 

But his chief desire now was to look into the face of Wash- 
ington, of whom he had heard so often, and who had even 
now gained much of that remarkable influence which he 
was destined to possess over the young men of the country. 
His rural and hunting tastes, his romantic, military experi- 
ence on the frontier, and his reputation for the most daring 
courage, had already made him a hero in a new country 
where such qualities would be most appreciated. But to 
Saville, he was more than a hero, more than a patriot and 
chivalrous soldier : he was a forerunner and inaugurator of 
the golden age of liberty and equality, which his fancy por- 
trayed in the near future. Groaning himself under the 
thraldom of the old and hated regime, he regarded the com- 
ing commander-in-chief as a captive in hard bondage might 
welcome a deliverer. He expected to see a face that was a 
revolution in itself, eager, fiery, kindling others into flame 
by its intense expression. 

But, when a tall and stately man in the prow of the fore- 
most batteau uncovered, as he drew near the shore, in ac- 


WASH-mCTON'S SERMON, 


47 


knowledgment of the resounding acclamations, he was at 
first disappointed. He was not looking on the bold, defiant 
features of an innovator. There was scarcely a trace even 
on that calm, noble face, of the enthusiasm that was burn- 
ing like a flame in his own heart. 

Wherein lay the man’s greatness and power.? In his 
eagerness to see more nearly the one he now felt would 
largely shape his own destiny, as well as that of others, he 
sprang down the rock, and unconsciously stood in the 
shallow water. Washington noted his eager action, and 
turned his face full upon him with a kindly look and half- 
inclination, while Saville removed his hat at once. 

As Washington again lifted his eyes to the waiting thou- 
sands, the young man scanned his face as if he would there 
read his own fate. Here was a man who had larger wealth 
and higher social position than himself, and yet he had 
joined his fortunes to a cause which Saville’ s relatives char- 
acterized as both desperate and disreputable. Here was 
the man toward whom the national heart instinctively turned, 
and hailed as leader and chief. As Washington -looked to 
God for guidance and help, Saville looked solely to man, 
and as we have said before, with all the eagerness which the 
hope of his own deliverance and the realization of his dreams 
could inspire, he scrutinized the face before him to gather 
if this were the coming man of the nouvelle ordre. 

He did not see what he expected — the embodied prin- 
ciples of the French iconoclasts and reckless innovators, but 
the native quickness of his race enabled him to apprehend 
the spirit which animated Washington, and which found 
expression in his honest face. There was no elation, no 
appearance of gratified pride, which such a reception would 
have evoked, had the elements of personal vanity existed 
largely in his nature. There was an absence of all com- 
placent self-confidence and self-assertion, and yet he inspired 


48 


NEAR TO NATURE’S HEART. 


confidence, and more — something of his own heroic and 
patient spirit of self-sacrifice in behalf of a sacred cause. 
His face wore the solemn aspect of one who felt himself 
charged with awful responsibilities. As he saw the thou- 
sands turning toward him in hope and trust, the burden of 
the nation's weal pressed heavier upon him. And yet there 
was not a trace of weakness or shrinking in view of his 
mighty tasks. His face had the calm, strong expression of 
one who had counted the cost, who was wholly consecrated, 
and who, without a thought of self, proposed to serve a 
cause in which he fully believed, leaving to God the issue. 
Like the ancient Hebrew leader who climbed Sinai’s height 
to the presence of God, he also had been prepared above 
the clouds to lead the people who tarried on the plain 
below. 

Though Saville could not understand the source of Wash- 
ington’s strength, still the calm, noble face quieted him. 
Half unconsciously he was taught the difference between 
mere enthusiasm and personal ambition, and a resolute 
purpose combined with unselfish devotion. He was gener- 
ous and noble enough himself to appreciate the heroic qual- 
ities embodied before him, and to be won to something of 
the same spirit for the time being. Washington’s appear- 
ance and character reconciled Saville’ s heart and conscience, 
which had long been at variance, and made him feel with 
the certainty of intuition, that the cause which had won 
such a man was so sacred, that he could be true to it, and 
at the same time true to every duty he owed his wife and 
mother. 

There are times when the mind, thoroughly aroused, 
works with marvelous rapidity ; and the few moments that 
intervened between the near approach and disembarking, 
gave that face, toward which so many were turning for 
inspiration, time to preach Saville the only sermon which 


WA SUING TO /V'S SERMON. 


49 


he had ever heeded. The most effective sermons, after all, 
are those which are embodied. The Word of God was a 
living person — a Divine Man. 

He who had been harassed so long by conflicting claims, 
hesitated no longer. With his eyes fixed on the man that, 
in his humanitarian creed, he was ready to worship, he said 
in the low, deep tone of resolve — 

“ His cause is mine from this hour forth. Liberty, 
equality, or death.” 

Washington had landed, and Saville was possessed with a 
desire to hear him speak, and so pressed toward him with 
many others. General Schuyler, who stood at his chief's 
side, had noticed the eager and interested air of the young 
man. He knew Saville slightly, and the thought occurred 
to him that it might be a good opportunity to secure the 
adherence of one who had thus far stood aloof, but whose 
wealth and talents would be a welcome addition to the 
cause. He spoke in a low tone to Washington, and then 
stepping up to Saville, said, 

“ Let me present you to his Excellency, with others of 
your fellow-citizens.” 

Before Saville could realize it, the man he adored had 
taken him by the hand, saying, 

“ Mr. Saville, I hope you are with us in this good 
cause.” 

With deep emotion, Saville replied, 

“ I am with you in any service — the humblest — which 
your Excellency may require.” 

” Rest assured,” said Washington, kindly, “ that it will 
be honorable service, for which your country will reward 
you,” 

The young man stepped back, more proud and pleased 
than if he had been decorated by all the sovereigns of 
Europe. 


50 N£AJ? TO NATURE'S HEART, 

The procession was now commencing to form. Saville 
pushed his way out of the throng to where Larry was gaping 
at the strange sights, and called, 

“ Bring me my horse, saddled, within five minutes.” 

“ Och, by the holy poker,” gasped Larry, as he ran tc 
obey the order, ” the maister is a goin’ to turn rebel. Thin 
I’ll be a rebel, too ; for there’s nary a man of ’em all that 
can fight ould England wid a better stomach than meself. 
Didn’t she take the last praty out of me bin at home ?” 

A little later, Saville, mounted on his favorite horse, took 
a flying leap over his garden wall, and joined the cavalcade 
of leading citizens who were to escort the Commander-in- 
chief down Broadway ; while Larry followed with the popu- 
lace on foot, chaffing right and left to the amusement of 
many listeners. 

At length the pageantry was over, and in the purple twi- 
light Saville sought his home. Everything in nature that 
Sabbath evening breathed of peace and tenderness, but he 
justly feared that a scene of bitter and unrelenting hostility 
was awaiting him. The coming battles in which he would 
take part, would never require the nerve and self-control 
that he must maintain this quiet June evening, and in his 
own home. 

In his exalted and generous mood, he determined to 
make one more appeal before the final separation with his 
wife took place. But meeting her on the piazza, he saw by 
a glance that it would be a vain and humiliating waste of 
words. 

Her features were inflamed with passion, and upon her 
full lower face rested the very impress of willful stubborn- 
ness. She had evidently heard of his action during the 
afternoon, and surmised the result. Having never been 
thwarted in her life, she now hated the man whose course 
and motives were so utterly repugnant to her. 


WASHINGTON'S SERMON. 51 

She stood in the doorway, dressed for walking, and, not 
waiting for him to speak, said harshly : 

“ Well, sir, in a word, what is your decision V* 

“ I have decided that I am a free man and a patriot.” 

“ A rebel and a perjurer, you mean.” 

“That is your unjust version, madam,” he repliet 
quietly, for Washington’s calm, strong face was before 
him. 

Her features grew fairly livid, but she was about to pass 
out without a word. 

“Julia!” he exclaimed, intercepting her, “listen for 
one moment before you take this rash, irrevocable step. 
If I am true to the sacred cause of Liberty, I can be true 
to you. I ” 

“ Stand aside !” she cried, imperiously stamping her 
foot. “ I will not hear one word of your idiotic drivel. 
The idea of you being true to anything, who break pledges 
made at God’s altar, and cast off your wife to join a herd 
of ragged, blaspheming rebels ; I shall never darken your 
doors again.” 

“ Well- chosen phrase, madam. You have indeed dark- 
ened my door, and darkened my life. But farewell : I will 
not reproach you. I will be loyal to the name of wife : 
the reality I never had.” 

She deigned no reply, but passed down the path that led 
to the adjoining residence of her parents, with such hot 
wrath in her heart that it was strange the roses did not 
wither as she passed. 

Saville breathed more freely after she was gone. It seemed 
as if a deadly incubus had been lifted from him. 

But he soon found that the meeting with his mother 
would be a far severer ordeal. When he entered her room, 
and saw her, who was usually so stately and composed, 
utterly broken down, rocking back and forth as if in mortal 


52 


J\r£A/^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


agony, with her gray hair hanging in disorder over her face, 
he felt as if a sword had pierced him. 

“Ruined! ruined! all is lost!” groaned the wretched 
woman. 

“ Why are we ruined,” he exclaimed impetuously, 
“ more than thousands of families who have joined the 
patriotic cause ?’ ' 

“ We shall soon be homeless and penniless.” 

“ No, mother, not at all. I shall have it distinctly 
known that you still adhere to the crown. I will put all 
the property in your name, and content myself with a 
soldier’s fare.” 

“ And I shall then be childless and alone in the world !” 
she continued in the same despairing tone. 

“ Oh, cease, mother ; you m.ay break my heart, but you 
cannot change my purpose. My word is pledged to Wash- 
ington and Liberty.” 

‘ ‘ It has been pledged before, ’ ’ was the reproachful reply. 

“ No !” said the young man sternly ; “do not charge 
me with dishonor. I can endure that from the woman to 
whom the miserable hap-hazard chance of this world and 
priest-craft temporarily joined me, but not from you. I 
never deliberately and consciously made a pledge against 
my present course ; and to-day I have seen a man who has 
taught me how I can be true to you, and at the same time 
true to Liberty. You say, ‘ my child,’ — do you not realize 
that I am a man, who must be guided by his own indepen- 
dent will or be despised by all I have chosen my lot.” 

With these decisive words, Saville retired to his room, 
that he might regain his calmness and form some plans for 
the future. 

Among his first acts during the next few weeks was the 
transfer of a large sum of money to Paris, subject to his 
own or his mother’s order. Having thus cast an anchor to 


WASHINGTON'S SERMON. 


S3 


the windward, he felt that he had done much to provide 
against the vicissitudes of that stormy period, and thus could 
give his thoughts more fully to the stirring work of the hour. 
He explained his situation, as far as a scrupulous delicacy 
would permit, to Captain Sears, more generally known by 
the sobriquet of “ King” Sears, and told this recognized 
leader of the populace in all daring revolutionary acts, that 
after the few weeks required to settle his affairs and provide 
for his mother, he would be ready to enter the regular ser- 
vice, and that, in the mean time, if any enterprise were on 
foot, he could be depended upon at any moment. His 
young Whig acquaintances had no further cause to complain 
of his absence from their councils, or of a disposition to 
shrink from “ honest blows” if any were to be received. 
He found a congenial spirit in a fiery young student of 
King’s College, whom his companions nick-named “ the 
Little Giant,” but who is now known to the world as Alex- 
ander Hamilton ; and the two young rebels plotted treason 
enough, in Tory estimation, to satisfy the shade of Guy 
Fawkes, and were quite as ready to blow up Parliament and 
all other anciently constituted authorities. 

Mrs. Saville’s manner was for a time that of cold and 
stony despair, and considering her views and feelings, it 
was more real than assumed. But beneath the thick crust 
of her worldliness and conservatism, there was a warm, 
motherly heart, which soon began to yearn toward her only 
son, who, she now feared, might any day be lost to her for- 
ever. Her coldness soon gave place to a clinging tender- 
ness, which she had never before manifested, and which 
made it a hundred-fold harder for her son to carry out the 
steadfast purpose which the expression of Washington’s face 
had inspired. Moreover, such are the contradictions of 
woman’ s heart, she secretly admired her handsome son, in 
his buff and blue uniform, and respected him far more than 


54 


NEAJ^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


if he had been content to remain merely the steward of the 
large joint estates which her thrifty scheming had united. 

Both pride and indifference prevented Saville from making 
advances toward his wife, and there was nothing in her 
nature that would prompt to any relenting. On the con- 
trary, as her husband's outspoken republicanism and skepti- 
cism were bruited through the city, her hatred grew more 
intense and vindictive. Not only was his opposition to 
church and state most offensive, but the fact that he could 
break her chains and ignore her existence was humiliating, 
and taught the spoiled beauty, for the first time, that her 
despotic will could be disregarded. Nothing so exasperates 
some natures as to be first thwarted, and then severely let 
alone. 

He scrupulously re- transferred her dower and every vestige 
of property to which she had the slightest claim ; and she, 
in impotent spite, refused to be known any longer by his 
name ; but the irrevocable marriage vows had been spoken, 
and this past act of folly, like a hidden rock had seemingly 
wrecked the happiness of both. They might hate each 
other, but they were forbidden to love any one else. 


SCENE AT BLACK SAM'SN 


55 


CHAPTER VI. 

** A SCENE AT BLACK SAM’s/" 

O N the evening of the 23d of August, 1775, a large 
mansion standing at the comer of Broadway and 
Dock (now Pearl) Street, appeared to be the center of un- 
usual excitement, even at that time of general ferment. 
The place was well known as the down-town tavern of Sam- 
uel Fraunces, who, from the swarthiness of his complexion, 
went by the sobriquet of “ Black Sam.’" This tap-room 
and restaurant was a general resort, not only because 
Fraunces was the Delmonico of that day, and could serve a 
dinner and cater in wines better than any other man in the 
city, but also because Sam’s patriotism effervesced as readily 
as his champagne or strong beer ; and, it may be added, 
for the reason that they were often served by his pretty, 
black-eyed daughter, Phoebe Fraunces. To her, perhaps, 
in the following year, Washington owed his life, since she 
was able, through the confidence given her by a lover who 
was one of Washington’s body-guard, to penetrate a Tory 
plot to destroy the dread Commander-in-chief by poison. 
True-hearted Phoebe was not to be won by a lover who pro- 
posed to administer such potions, so, having smilingly be- 
guiled from him his secret, she furnished him with another 
noose than that of Hymen’s make, and donning her bright- 
est petticoat, went cheerfully to his hanging. 

But upon this memorable occasion, she was the embodi- 
ment of exuberant health and spirits, and seemed as spark- 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


56 

ling as the wines she brought to the guests that thronged 
this favorite haunt of the city. It was warm, and her round, 
stout arms were bare, and her swelling throat and bosom 
snowy white, while her eyes were black as coals. But 
while she was coquettish and piquant, there was nothing 
pert or bold in her manner, and he was either drunk or 
brutish who gave her a wanton word the second time. In 
her ready tongue she carried a keener weapon than the 
swords that dangled and clattered at the sides of the incipi- 
ent warriors on whom she waited ; and when provoked she 
gave thrusts which brought the hot blood at least to their 
faces. But while she inspired a wholesome respect, she 
was generally bubbling over with good humor and arch rep- 
artee, and so was a general favorite. Her mercurial nature 
readily caught the spirit of the hour, and to-night her dark 
eyes were ablaze with excitement, and her white teeth, which 
frequent smiles displayed, and her white neck and arms, 
gave to her quick movements a glancing, scintillating effect. 
As she flitted here and there among the noisy patriots, many 
an eager sentence was suspended and but lamely finished, 
as the speaker’s eyes followed her admiringly. 

Little wonder that she was the blooming Hebe of this 
bacchanalian Elysium, for the majority habitually craved 
the boon of drinking to her health. She would graciously 
comply, and then chuckle with her father over the coins 
resulting, when, at the late hour (at that primitive time) of 
ten at night, they counted the gains of the day. It is to 
such places that men resort who appear to value public and 
purchased smiles from those who sell to all alike, more than 
similar glances from wives and children, which they rarely 
seek to win, and more rarely deserve. Phoebe was not 
above reaping this harvest from fools ; but she did it so 
fascinatingly that they felt well repaid. 

Black Sam, broad and swarthy, stood behind his bar, 


A SCENE AT BLACK SAM’S.'' 


57 


controlling and directing his large establishment from this 
central point like a captain on the deck of his ship. His 
eyes were a trifle duller than Phoebe’s, and indicated that 
he indulged occasionally in more than the sips of a con- 
noisseur. But to-night they glanced rapidly and shrewdly 
around, seeing that his daughter and her assistants neglected 
no one ; and he found time, in the mean while, to add a 
word in his heavy bass to the various pronounced political 
discussions and utterances going on around him. It was 
very evident that Sam and his patrons had little reverence 
for the “ divinity which doth hedge a king,” and these 
quasi subjects of George HI. spoke of him with a refreshing 
candor which it would have been well for him to have heard, 
for it might have saved a world of trouble. It has ever been 
the chief misfortune of potentates that they are surrounded 
by a dead wall of courtiers that excludes every rude but 
warning sound. 

Phoebe's excitable temperament correctly interpreted the 
occasion. There was something abroad in the air which 
charged the summer night with subtle and electrifying power. 
Though many were evidently in ignorance, it was noted that 
Fraunces exchanged significant glances with several present, 
and seemed dilating with some portentous secret. His sup- 
pressed excitement grew more apparent, as his rooms filled 
rapidly, and the crowd increased about the doors. It was 
also observed that all the newcomers were armed, and that 
among the rapidly appearing faces were those which, like 
beacon fires, always betokened some doughty undertaking. 
The general stir and hoarse murmur of voices was greatly 
augmented when Saville entered with young Hamilton, fol- 
lowed by fifteen students from King’s College, all^ fully 
armed. The latter were soon chaffing with Phoebe as they 
took from the tray she brought them, glasses brimming over 
with rich Madeira, for which the tavern was most famous. 


58 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


‘ ‘ With father’ s compliments,” said Phoebe, courtesying. 
Then, boy-like, they proposed three cheers for the prince 
of caterers and the fair Hebe who had borne them the nectar 
which he alone could furnish ; and they were given with 
deafening heartiness and glasses raised aloft. 

They were scarcely drained, before a young man, leaning 
Upon the bar, and who was more noted for his drinking 
powers than his discretion, cried, 

” I propose another toast — Saville, who is doubly to be 
congratulated, since he has escaped a double bondage — 
that of King George and also of his Tory wife ; having 

slipped the cable of her apron-string by which ” 

Before he could finish his sentence, Saville’ s fist was 
planted upon his mouth with such force as to send him 
reeling to the floor, with his glass clattering after him. 
Standing over the prostrate and half-tipsy man, and trem- 
bling with rage, Saville said, threateningly, 

” The man who dares to cast a slur upon my wife shall 
do so at his peril.” 

There was the usual uproar and confused sound of con- 
flicting voices, when a cry arose which drowned all else, 
” Sears, Sears, King Sears,” and that great firebrand of the 
American Revolution, whose headlong zeal and courage 
kindled so many fires of contention with the royal authori- 
ties, stood among them. 

“ Come, come, comrades,” he cried, ” no need of inter- 
changing blows here among yourselves. Come with me, 
and I will give you a crack at our common enemy. Col- 
onel Lamb, with his artillerymen, and Captain Lasher, with 
his company, are marching down Broadway to take the guns 
at the fort, without saying so much as ‘by your leave.* 
Who will follow me to their aid ?” 

There was a loud acquiescing shout, while Black Sam 
sprang over his bar, crying. 


SCENE AT BLACK SAM'SN 


59 


“ Lead on, King Sears, and the man who refuses to fol- 
low may choke with thirst before my hand serves him 
again. ’ ' 

In Fraunces’s estimation, this was the direst threat he 
could make, and in fact, to many present, the fulfillment 
would be like cutting off the springs of life. 

Hamilton took Saville’s arm, saying, 

“ Come, comrade, fall in. What do the maudlin words 
of that drunken fellow signify? Come, you know we’ve 
grand work on hand to-night.” 

In a few brief moments the crowded, noisy rooms were 
deserted. The street became full of hoarse shoutings, and 
the confused sound of many feet, as Sears, Hamilton, and 
other extemporized officers marshaled the citizen-soldiery in 
something like orderly array. Then from the head of the 
column rang out those stirring words which, though causing 
many hearts to bound with hope and thrill with grand excite- 
ment, have yet been the death-knell of myriads. 

“ Forward — march !” 

With strong and steady tramp the dusky figures receded 
toward Broadway, while Phoebe, with eyes ablaze, stood in 
the door waving a farewell with her handkerchief, its flutter 
meaning anything rather than a truce with King George’s 
agents of oppression. 

Black Sam’s buxom wife took his place behind the bar, 
while Phoebe repaired to an upper window that she might 
see if the English man-of-war in the harbor had anything to 
add to the drama of the evening. The hitherto thronged 
hostelry became silent, being deserted by all save a few old 
men whose age precluded them from taking part in the 
events of the night. It was an occasion when not even the 
famous Madeira of Sam’s tavern could tempt any loyalists 
thither ; and such of the Whigs as were too prudent to join 
the raid, skulked away, much preferring to face a dozen 


6o 


NEAR TO NATURES HEART. 


English batteries than to hear the comments of Phoebe 
Fraunces upon their discretion. 

As for the young woman herself, she repined bitterly at 
the usages of society which prevented her from taking hand 
in the promised melee, and was half inclined to don hojc 
father’s habiliments, and be a man in spite of fate. 


N£PV YORK UNDER FIRE. 


6i 


CHAPTER VII, 


NEW YORK UNDER FIRE. 


OLONEL LAMB and Captain Lasher with their com- 



panies halted on Broadway till Sears and his following 
of citizens joined them ; then they proceeded at once to 
Fort George, which had its front on Bowling Green, and 
was located within the space now bounded by State, Bridge, 
and Whitehall Streets. Tory informers had revealed to the 
authorities in charge of this work the intended attack. In 
view of the overwhelming force* no resistance was made by 
the small garrison. Unmolested at first, the patriots went 
to work with feverish zeal to dismount the cannon from the 
bastions, and load them on the heavy wagons that came 
lumbering down Broadway for the purpose. 

To Alexander Hamilton and his party was given the task 
of capturing Grand Battery, another and smaller work nearer 
the river, which was also accomplished without resistance. 

But the fiery young spirits composing this band were 
much disappointed at the quiet and peaceful nature of the 
enterprise thus far. 

“ We might as well have come armed with only pickaxes 
and crowbars,"’ growled Hamilton. 

“ Yes,” responded Saville, in like discontented mood. 
“ A brigade of carmen was all that was required on this 
occasion. I had hoped that the night would be enlivened 
by a few- flashes at least. Suppose we go down to the 
water's edge and take a look at the Asia"' 


62 


NEAR TO NA TURNS HEART. 


Securing the approval of their superior officers, and leav- 
ing a guard in charge of the work, the rest of the party com- 
menced patrolling the shore, casting wistful glances at the 
ship, whose masts and yards were faintly outlined against 
the sky. 

“ Now, if we had only a dozen whale-boats,'' said Ham- 
ilton, “ and could go out and board that old tub, we would 
have a night's work that would stir one's blood." 

" Not a little would be set running, no doubt," replied 
Saville ; " and it would not all be on our side either, I 
imagine. But see, they are waking up on board. We may 
have a bout with those water dogs yet." 

It soon became clear that there was an unusual stir and 
excitement on the vessel. Lights gleamed and glanced 
rapidly from point to point, and faint and far away came 
the sound of orders hastily given. 

Then there was a heavy splash in the water. 

" Hurrah I" cried Hamilton, " they are manning a boat. 
We will resolve ourselves into a committee of reception." 

The measured cadence of oars confirmed the surmise just 
made, and the young men eagerly pressed to the furthest 
point of land, and looked well to the priming of their fire- 
locks. The barge was pulled steadily toward them until at 
last a dusky outline emerged from the night, and then the • 
shadowy figures of the crew. 

" Make not a sound, and let them land if they will," said 
Hamilton in a low tone. 

But the barge approached warily, with lengthening rests 
after each dip of the oars. At last, the officer in command 
detected the little party in waiting, and shouted : 

" Who and what are you ? What deviltry’s on foot to- 
night ?" 

“ Come and see," cried Hamilton laconically. 

But the officer's night-glass, together with the ominous 


N£1V YORK UNDER FIRE. 


63 


sounds from Fort George, clearly showed that this was not 
good advice under the circumstances. There was a hurried 
consultation, and then, whether by order or not cannot be 
known, some one in the boat fired a musket, and the hot 
young bloods, for the first time, heard the music of a whist- 
ling bullet. 

“ Give 'em a volley — quick !" cried Hamilton. 

Obedience to the order was indeed prompt, and yet not 
so hasty but tha^ the marksmen, familiar with the rifle from 
boyhood, took good aim, and several in the barge were 
killed and wounded. The silent oars at once struck the 
water sharply, and the boat rapidly disappeared toward the 
man-of-war ; but the young men heard enough to satisfy 
them that their shots had taken effect. 

Immediately upon the report of the first musket. Colonel 
Lamb, Captain Lasher, and King Sears hastened to the 
shore with many others, and learned from Hamilton what 
had occurred. In the mean time the barge reached the 
vessel and reported, satisfying Captain Vandeput of the Asia 
that the intimations he had received of the proposed attack 
upon the forts were correct. The British authorities hitherto 
had hesitated in taking decisive action, knowing that it 
would precipitate the conflict at once. But now the point 
of forbearance seemed passed, and he ordered the port-holes 
opened and the rebels dispersed by a few shots. In ^uick 
succession three flashes came from the ship’s sides, 
three balls plowed into the Battery. 

But so far from dispersing quietly, ^ai;i[tb, Qrd^red tl^e 
drums to beat to arms, and the church bicll^ to be rqng, and 
soon the silent city was in an uproar. 

English blood, as well as Aiqerican, was now at boiling 
point, and the defiant sounds froiq the shore were no longer 
answered by single shots but by broadsides, the thundering 
echoes and crashing balls of which awoke both Whigs and 


64 


JVJSAJ^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


Tories to the realization of the true meaning of war. The 
experiences of Boston, the very thought of which had caused 
maAy to tremble, were now their own in the aggravated 
form of a midnight cannonade. Men, women, and chil- 
dren, many but partially clad, rushed into the streets and 
joined the increasing throng of fugitives that pressed toward 
the open country, away from the terrible monster in the 
harbor, whose words were iron, and whose hot breath threat- 
ened to burn their homes over their heads. ^ Tories, as they 
ran, cursed the rebels, whom they regarded as the cause of 
the trouble ; and the Whigs anathematized British tyranny. 
But faster and hotter than their oaths the heavy balls crashed 
into their houses or over their heads, with the peculiar, 
demoniacal shriek of a flying shot. 

A night bombardment is a terrible thing for strong, brave 
men to endure. The roar of cannon is awe-inspiring in 
itself ; but when it is remembered that every flash and 
thunder peal has its resistless bolt which is aimed at one’s 
life, only those who have nerved themselves to risk their 
lives calmly, or who, like the patriots on the Battery, are 
lifted by mad excitement above all fears, can stand unmoved. 
But how could the sick and the aged — how could helpless 
women and children endure such an ordeal ? Only the 
pitying eye of God noted all the fainting, mortal fear of 
those who tremblingly snatched children, treasures, or sacred 
heirlooms, and sought to escape. Hearts almost ceased 
their beating, as the terror-stricken fugitives heard balls 
whizzing toward them. The messengers of death might 
strike out of the darkness any where and any one. Broad- 
way has witnessed many scenes, but never a more pitiable 
one than when, in that August midnight, a hundred years 
ago, it was thronged with half-clad, shrinking, sobbing 
women, and little children wailing for parents, lost in the 
darkness and the confusion of flight. When, at last, the 


JVEir YORK UNDER FIRE, 


65 


open fields beyond the range of the Asia s guns were 
reached, the strangely assorted multitude, from whom the 
gloom of night and common misfortune had blotted out all 
distinctions, sat down panting and weary, and prayed for 
the light of day. 

Many who were helpless and a few who were brave re- 
mained in their homes, either in an agony of fear or in quiet 
resignation. Among the latter was Phoebe Fraunces. But 
there was not a particle of resignation in her nature, for she 
chafed around her father’s tavern like a caged lioness ; and 
when a round shot, well and spitefully aimed at the “ pesti- 
lent rebel nest,” as it was called on the Asia^ crashed 
through the house, shattering a decanter of Madeira that the 
gunner v'ould rather have drained himself, she forgot the 
softness of her sex utterly, and seizing a huge cutlass that 
hung over the bar, and leaving her mother to recover from 
a fit of hysterics as best she might, she started for the scene 
of action in a mood that would have led her to board the 
Asia single-handed, had the opportunity offered. But, as 
she approached Fort George and heard the rough voices of 
the men at work, her modesty regained its control, and she 
realized that it was scarcely proper for a young woman to 
be abroad and alone at that time of the night ; so, she who 
was ready to attack a man-of-war, turned and fled before 
that which a true woman fears more than an army — the 
appearance of evil. But it would have been a woful 
blunder for any rude fellow to have spoken to Phoebe that 
night, armed as she was with the old cutlass, and abundance 
of muscle to wield it. His gallant advances would have 
been cut short instantly. 

Although there was panic in the city, there was nothing 
of the kind within the dismantled walls of Fort George, 
from which the cannon were fast disappearing ; nor upon 
the Battery, where Colonel Lamb’s artillerymen, flanked by 


66 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 


Hamilton and his students, were drawn up, to prevent the 
Asia from interfering with their operations by landing a 
force from the vessel. But Captain Vanderput prudently 
contented himself with striking from a distance, supposing 
that the terrors of a night bombardment would soon bring 
the contumacious rebels to their knees. To make the warn- 
ing lesson still mo’.e effectual, and to increase their punish- 
ment greatly, he ordered the guns to be loaded occasionally 
with the deadly grape-shot. 

But, in the morning, both he and the populace had a 
surprise. The Battery was not covered with killed and 
wounded. - In fact, there was not a Whig to be seen, dead 
or alive. But neither was there a cannon to be found in 
the royal forts. While he had been thundering his dis- 
approval from the harbor, the “raw militia,’’ who, his 
officers jocularly asserted, “would not stop running south 
of King’s Bridge,” had steadily completed their tasks, and 
spirited off every gun to parts unknown. 

And when, in the peaceful summer morning, the fugitives, 
who had spent the night in the open air, concluded they 
had better go home to breakfast, and appear in less pictu- 
resque toilets, they found, instead of death, carnage, and 
gutters running with blood, no wounds save those v/hich the 
carpenter and joiner could heal. It was another remarkable 
example of how little destruction may be caused by a bom- 
bardment, even in a crowded city. The mercurial temper- 
ament of the people, which their descendants seem to have 
inherited, led those of Whig proclivities, who were over- 
whelmed with terror but a few hours previous, to react -into 
cheerfulness and exultation. Many doughty citizens, who 
stole into their back entrances, strangely appareled, soon 
afterward appeared, dressed in different style, at their front 
doors, hoping that their flight had been covered by the dark- 
ness ; and not a few, who had made excellent time toward 


N£IV YORK UNDER FIRE. 


67 


King’s Bridge, ventured, over their dram at the corners of 
the streets, to descant on “ the way we carried off the British 
bulldogs from the fort.” 

The Tory element in the city was very quiet that day ; 
but a sullen, vindictive expression lowered upon many faces, 
The timid and conservative sighed, again and again, 

“ Where is this thing to end ?” 

In a beautiful up-town villa, the face of one fair woman 
was often distorted with passion and hate, as she hissed, 
through her teeth, He was foremost in this vile night 
work.” But when Saville, hungry and exhausted, reached 
his home, his mother, who had been a sleepless watcher, 
only folded him in her arms, murmuring, 

” Thank God ! you are yet spared to me.” 

Then she gave him a breakfast that in future campaigning 
caused many a longing sigh as he remembered it. 


68 


N£AJ^ TO NATURE'S HEART, 


CHAPTER VIII. 

LARRY MEETS HIS FATE. 

H aving completed all the arrangements possible for 
his mother’s comfort, and settled his affairs as far as 
the times permitted, Saville made known his readiness to 
enter the regular service at any point where he could be 
most useful. His education as an engineer led to his being 
sent to Martelear’s Rock (Constitution Island) in the High- 
lands of the Hudson. He would have much preferred 
serving under Washington, before Boston, but had too 
much of the spirit of a soldier to think of aught save prompt 
obedience. Having been commissioned as lieutenant, he 
repaired to the scene of his duties about the last of Septem- 
ber, and found that he was to serve under an officer by the 
name of Colonel Romans, who had arrived on the ground 
with a small working force about a month earlier. He was 
assigned to the duty of superintending the details of labor 
and the carrying out of the plans of the chief engineer in 
respect to the incipient fortifications. 

While strolling around the rocky island, the evening after 
his arrival, he soon came in full view of the extreme point 
of land on the western shore, whereon he had seen such a 
strange vision a few months previous. In the press and 
excitement of succeeding events, the circumstance had 
quite faded from his memory ; but now, with the purpose 
of diverting his mind from painful thoughts, he decided to 
solve the pretty enigma by which he had been so unexpect- 


LARRY MEETS HIS FATE. 


69 


edly baffled. He made some inquiries of the small garrison 
with whom he was associated ; but they, like himself, were 
newcomers, and knew nothing of the few inhabitants of the 
region. For several days he was too much occupied with 
the effort to obtain the mastery of his duties to think of 
aught else, and, when evening came, was well contented to 
climb some rocky point on the island, and rest, while he 
enjoyed the wonderful beauty of the landscape ; for this 
historic region was just as weird and lovely then as now, 
when it is admired by thousands of tourists. 

But one warm afternoon, early in October, he took with 
him the garrulous Larry, his body-servant, who had followed 
the fortunes of his master, and started in a little skiff down 
the river to a cottage on the western bank, which he had 
noted on his journey up. This might be the home of the 
wood-nymph, or he there might learn something about her. 

“ Come, Larry, I want time for a little shooting after I 
land,” said Saville, impatiently ; “so pull away, and I 
will steer, for the tide is against us.” 

“I’m obleeged to yer honor,” replied Larry, dryly, tug- 
ging at the oars ; “ there’s nothing like dewision of labor.” 

“ You can rest while I am tramping round with my gun,” 
said Saville, who gave Larry something of the license of a 
court jester. “ I shall expect you to wait for me where 
I leave you, so that there may be no delay in our return.” 

“ Faix, sur, I hope ye’s gun will be more ready to go off 
than I'll be, arter this pull.” 

Having descended the river half a mile below the foaming 
cascade now known as Buttermilk Falls, they fastened their 
boat and ascended the bank to the cottage, or, more cor- 
rectly, log cabin. 

Saville quickly saw enough to convince him that this 
could not be the home of the young girl who sang 
“ I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows.” 


70 


JV£AI^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


A huge, fat hog reclined in the sun near the step, and 
chickens passed in and out of the door, as if they had equal 
rights with the family, while the cow-stable formed an exten- 
sion to the dwelling, and was quite as well built as the rest 
of it. Were it not for his wish to make inquiries, he would 
have turned away in disgust. 

But for Larry the scene appeared to have unw’onted attrac- 
tions. With arms akimbo he struck an attitude of admiring 
contemplation, as he exclaimed, 

“I’m glad I come wid youV honor, for I’ve seen nothink 
so swate since I left the ould counthry. Now, isn’t that a 
beautiful soight } Pace and plenty ! ’Twas jist such a pig 
as that as grunted at me father’s door. Faix, sur, it makes 
me a bit homesick and Larry’s shrewd, twinkling eyes 
grew moist from early memories. 

As they proceeded a little further, Larry saw that which 
proved quite as attractive to him as the vision of Vera had 
been to Saville a few months before ; but the elements of 
mystery and romance were wholly wanting. In a small 
inclosure back of the house a young Irishwoman was dig- 
ging potatoes. As the men approached, she leaned leisurely 
upon her fork-handle, and stared at them unblenchingly. 
Her head was bare, but well thatched with thick, tangled 
tresses which were a little too fiery to be called golden. 
Her eyes were dark, expressive, and bold ; her stout arms 
were red and freckled, as was also her full and rather hand- 
some face. In simplicity and picturesqueness no fault could 
be found with her dress, for it appeared to consist only of a 
red petticoat and a scant blue bodice ; but it might well 
have been mended at several points. Her feet and ankles 
were as bare as those of Maud Muller, if not so shapely and 
slender. But, as she stood there, aglow with exercise, in 
the afternoon sun, she seemed to Larry a genuine Irish 
houri — the most perfect flower of the Green Isle that he had 


LARRY MEETS HIS FATE. 


71 


ever seen ; and he hoped that his master, who had accosted 
an old woman knitting in the doorway, would keep him 
waiting indefinitely, so that he might make the acquaintance 
of this rare creature. 

“ Tm glad to see you well, madam, and enjoying the fine 
afternoon,'' began Saville, with French suavity. 

“ Umph !" responded the old woman, and after looking 
him over briefly, went on with her knitting. 

“ Have you any neighbors in this region ?" asked Saville, 
undaunted by his forbidding reception. 

“ Mighty few as is neighborly." 

“ But there are other families living near.' 

“ A small sprinklin'." 

“ Haven't you some neighbors further up the river, and 
nearly opposite the island where we are building the fort * 

“ Indade, an' we have not. Our neighbors be dacent 
folks who own their land, and not skulkin' and hidin' 
squatters." 

“ Would you mind taking a shilling for a bowl of milk ?" 
said Saville, pursuing his object with a little finesse. 

“Now ye talk sinse," replied the old woman, rising. 
“ No, nor two on ’em. I ax your pardon for being a bit 
offish, for I’ve seen sogers in the ould counthry, an' no 
good came o' 'em. Yer grinnin' man there is not a soger, 
be he ?" 

“ No, indeed ; Larry is a man of peace." 

“ 'Kase I want 'em all to understand that if any sogers 
come a snoopin' round here arter Molly, they’ll be arter 
catchin' me 'stead o’ her." 

“ 1 don’t think any will come, then," said Saville gravely. 

“ But I'm sorry you give your neighbors up the river such 
a bad character." 

“It's not meself that gives ’em a bad character, but their 
own bad dades." 


72 


J^£A/^ TO NATURE'S HEART 


‘ ‘ Why, what have they done V ’ 

That's rnore'n any one knows ; sumpin’ the ould 
man's mighty 'shamed on, for he won’t look honest folk in 
the face ; and as for that wild hawk of a gal o’ his’n, the 
less said ’bout her the better. She’s kind of a witch, any- 
how, and ’pears and dodges out o’ sight while yer winkin’. 
She needn't turn up her nose at my Molly there, that’s come 
o’ dacent folk.” 

“ And has she been guilty of that offense ?” 

Dade an’ she has ; Molly comes ’cross her now an’ 
thin, out berry in’, and fust she tried to speak her fair, but 
the ill-mannered crather would kinder stare at her a minute, 
and thin vanish in a flash. She’s larnt more o’ that ould 
heathen black witch, as lives wid ’em, than anythin’ good.” 

“ What is the name of the family 

“ That, too, is rnore’n anybody knows. They calls 
’emselves ‘ Brown ;’ but I know ’tain't their name ; for it 
was meself that did a bit o' washin' for 'em once when the 
woman was sick, and there was two names on the linen, 
but nary one nor tother was Brown. I couldn’t jist make 
out what they was, for I hain’t good at readin’ ; but one 
thing is sartin, husband and wife don’t have two names.” 

” Have they done anything wrong since they came here 

“ Well, I can’t say they are robbin’ and murderin’ every 
night, and yet how they live nobody knows. But it’s 'nuff 
that they’re hathen. They did widout the praste in the fust 
place, and nary a thing have they had to do wid praste or 
parson since. The ould black witch worships the divil, for 
Molly's seen her in the woods a-goin’ on as would make 
yer har stan’ up ; and I’m a-thinkin’ the divil will git ’em 
all ; an’ he may, for all o' me. ” 

By the time Saville had finished his bowl of bread and 
milk, he came to the conclusion that the crone had more 
spite and prejudice against her neighbors than knowledge 



% 


vt 




‘V 


I ^ 









4 




f 










Thf, Top o’ the Mornin’ to ye,” Larry had said. 







LARRY MEETS HIS FATE. 


73 


of them. It was the old story of resentment on the part of 
the ignorant and the vulgar toward superiority and exclu- 
siveness. It was very probable, however, that some guilty 
secret of the past led to this utter seclusion. Saville well 
knew that there were many hiding in the wilderness whose 
antecedents would not bear much light. And yet his curi- 
osity, so far from being satisfied, was only piqued the more 
by the old woman’s dark intimations. Taking his gun, he 
said to Larry, who was now digging potatoes vigorously, 

“ So that is the way you are resting.” 

“ Diggin’ praties is an aisy change, and kind o’ home- 
like ; and thin, yer honor, ye wud not have me a-standin’ 
like a great lazy lout, while a fair leddy was a-workin’. ” 

“Very well ; but save enough muscle to row me home.” 
And he went back upon the hills in quest of game, leaving 
his deeply smitten factotum to the wiles of Molly, who, 
with hands upon her hips, contemplated his chivalric labors 
in her behalf with great complacency. 

“ The top o’ the mornin’ to ye,” Larry had said as he 
approached, doffing his hat. 

“ Faix, an ye’re a green Irishman not to know the afther- 
noon from mornin’,” was Molly’s rather brusque greeting. 

“ The sight o’ ye wud make any time o’ night or day 
seem the bright mornin’,” was Larry’s gallant rejoinder. 

“ Ye kissed the blarney-stone afore ye left home. I’m 
a-thinkin’.” 

“ An’ ye’ll let me kiss yer own red lips. I’ll dig all these 
praties for ye.” 

* I see ye’ re good at a sharp bargain, if ye be a bit green. 
But I’ll wait till ye dig the praties.” 

“ But ye’ll give me jist one buss when I’m half through, 
to kinder stay me stomach.” 

“ There’s plenty lads as wud be glad to dig the praties 
for me widout a-drivin’ hard bargains for it.” 


74 


JSTEA/^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


“ So they’ll tell yees afther the praties is dug. They’ll 
be very swate about it whin the cowld snow kivers the 
ground.” 

“An’ ye think ye’re very swate about it now,” said 
Molly, with her head coquettishly on one side. 

“ No, but I’m a-hopin’ ye’ll be swate about it.” 

“ What’s yer name, anyhow?” 

“ Larry O’FIarharty ; an’ ye may have it yerself any day 
that ye’ll go wid me to the praste.” 

“ Is that what ye say to every gal ye mate ?” 

“ Faix, an’ it is not. It’s to yersel that I’ve fust said 
it.” 

“Ye’re better at talkin’ than doin’. I thought I’d git 
at least one hill o’ praties dug by yees.” 

“ Give me the fork, thin, and I’ll show ye that Larry 
O’FIarharty can take care o’ ye and a dozen childer into 
the bargain.” 

“ Och, ye spalpeen ! Ye’ll have me coorted, married, 
and a gran’ mother, afore ye git a praty out the dirt.” 

Larry set about his labor of love with such zeal that the 
potatoes fairly hopped out of the ground, carroling, as he 
worked, 

“ I’ll dress ye up in silks so foine, 

An’ ye shall drink the best o’ woine. 

Be jabers ! but we’ll cut a shoine 

The day when what’s yer name is moine.” 

How’s that for a dilicate way of axing ye yer name ?” 

“ What do I want wid a name since ye’re goin’ to give 
me yourn ?” 

“ What shall I call ye till the happy day comes ?” 

“ Molly, for short.” 

“ Let it be for short, thin, and not for long.” 

“ D’ye think I wud marry a man o’ all work ? I’m goin’ 
to marry a gallant soger boy. ’ ’ 


LARRY MEETS HIS FATE. 


75 


“ No ye hain’t, nayther/’ struck in her mother, whose 
age had evidently not impaired her hearing. 

Molly gave her head a defiant toss which indicated that the 
maternal leading-strings had parted long ago. Larry paused 
abruptly in his work, and leaning his chin on the fork- 
handle, asked, 

“ Are ye sarious about that now 

“ Ah, go on wid yer work and sthop yer foolin’,” said 
Molly, who saw that she had made a false move in her little 
game to get her potatoes dug by another. 

“ Divil a praty will I dig till ye tell me.” 

” Divil another shall ye dig any way, ye impudent spal- 
peen !” retorted Molly, who was touchy as gunpowder ; 
and she took the fork out of his hands, and turning her 
back upon him, struck it into the potato hillocks as only a 
spiteful termagant could. Discomfited Larry in the mean 
time perched himself on the fence, that he might take an 
observation, and hold a council of war in his own mind. 
But the more he looked the more the charms of this wonder- 
ful creature grew upon him, and his soft, impressible heart 
became as wax. He soon hopped down from his rail, and 
said, 

” Come now, Molly darlint, what’s the use o’ a.goin’ 
agin fate ? Ye shall marry a soger bhoy, I see that by the 
cut of yer perty jib, as the sailors say. Ye’ve spunk and 
fire enough for a rigiment. Give me the fork agin, and 
one o’ yer own swate smiles.” 

Well, since ye're a sort o’ baste o’ burden, an loike 
workin’ better nor fightin’, ye may have yer way. ” 

“ Faix, an’ I will be a baste wid the burden of a sore an’ 
heavy heart, if ye talk to me in that way.” 

Molly could come out of a pet as quickly as she fell into 
it, and so she said, 

“I’ll be swate thin till ye git the praties dug.” 


76 


JVBAJ? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


“ Yis, an’ many a long day afther. I know the soger 
bhoy ye’re goin’ to marry.” 

” No, ye don’t.” 

“Yis, I do.” 

“ What’s his name ?’ 

“ Larry O’Flarharty. The masther may git a new man, 
for I’m goin’ to ’list. The nixt time ye see me I’ll be a 
gay and gallant soger bhoy. I’ 11 

“ Hush, mother’s cornin’.” 

Larry delved after the potatoes as if they were halfway 
down to China. 

The old woman looked sharply and suspiciously at them, 
but only said, 

“ Molly, go afther the cows.” 

“ I’ll go wid ye,” cried Larry, throwing down the fork. 

“ No, ye won’t,’ ’ retorted the old woman ; “ yer masther 
tould ye to bide here till he come.” 

“ I’m a-thinkin’ I’ll be me own masther,” said Larry, 
straightening himself up ; “ everybody’s gittin’ free an’ 
indepindent, and I’ll thry a hand at it meself.” 

“ Go along and git ’em yerself, mother,” added Molly, 
who began to entertain some thoughts of her own in regard 
to this ardent admirer that was so subservient to her will and 
moods. “ They hain’t far off ; and ye wud not have me 
treat the man what has been a-workin’ for me all the aflher- 
noon so oncivil as to lave him alone. Go along, and we’ 11 
have the praties dug agin ye git back.” 

The old woman was in straits what to do, since in either 
case she must leave her daughter alone with one at least 
nearly connected with the dreaded “ sogers but at last 
she hobbled grumblingly after the cows, the tinkle of whose 
bells proclaimed them near. 

With the usual perverseness of human nature, Molly grew 
friendly toward the soldiers as her mother showed prejudice 


LARRY MEETS HIS FATE. 


77 


against them. The more she learned about their life, the 
more attractive its publicity, vicissitudes, and excitement 
became to her bold, restless spirit, and she had already re- 
solved to enter the camp in some capacity at the earliest 
possible moment. The thought now occurred to her that 
perhaps she might find in this plastic, garrulous stranger 
just the chance she hoped for. Molly was aware of her 
infirmity of temper, and if she could find a “soger’’ that 
could be kept submissively under her thumb, she would 
consider herself blessed with better luck than she had ever 
dared to expect. 

Larry made his first favorable impression when he good- 
naturedly dismounted from his rail, and recommenced the 
work which she was ready enough to leave to him ; and she 
was not long in coming to the conclusion that if this pliable 
and useful man of all work could be transformed into a 
regular soldier, and then be captured as a sort of base of 
operations, which would enable her to lead a free, wild, 
rollicking life, she had better make the most of the oppor- 
tunity. But she went direct to her point with feminine 
indirectness, and so when her mother was out of hearing, 
said, 

“Ye’re not brave enough to be a soger.’* 

“ An’ ye are not brave enough to marry one.” 

“Some foine day, when ye’re a-blackin’ yer masther’s 
boots, ye’ll find yerself mistaken, for ye’ll see me a- walkin’ 
into camp the wife o’ the handsomest man o’ the lot o’ 
yees.” 

“ Now what do ye mane be that ?’’ asked Larry, abruptly 
suspending his labors, while his chin and troubled phiz again 
surmounted the fork-handle. 

“ I mane,’’ said Molly yawning, “ that I’m only a- waitin’ 
to make up me mind which of me soger swatehearts to 
take. ’ * 


78 //EAJ? TO NATURE'S HEART. 

“An’ how many have ye, sure?” said Larry, in some- 
thing like dismay. 

” Oh ! sumthin’ less than a dozen.” 

“ But ye hain’t made up yer mind on any on ’em yit?” 
queried the anxious lover. 

“ Well, not yit. There’s two or three on ’em I could 
worry along wid if I thried.” 

“ Yis, an’ it would be worryin’ along, Molly, me dear ; 
while wid me ye’d be happy as a quane.” 

“ But I telled ye afore I was goin’ to marry a soger.” 

‘ ‘ And I telled ye afore I was a goin’ to be a soger. ’ ’ 

“ Yis, a-goin’ an’ a-goin’, but I’ll belave it when I see 
it.” 

“ An' one wake from this day ye will see it,” protested 
Larry, with hearty emphasis. 

” Now ye begin ter talk a little sinse,” said Molly, more 
complacently. “Well, well. I’ll thry ye, and give yean 
aven start wid me other swatehearts. If ye’re down by the 
wather a wake from this afthernoon dressed as a gay soger 
boy. I’ll think ye mane sumthin’, but all yer foine words 
now is loike spilt wather.” 

“ Och, Molly, me darlint,” cried Larry, and pitching 
away his fork, he threw his arms around the bewitching crea- 
ture, and took full payment for his labor of the afternoon. 

“ Hold on, Larry,” cried his master, who had returned 
just in time to witness this last demonstration ; “ hold on, 
or you will never be able to row me back to camp.” 

“ Faix, yer honor,” said Larry, somewhat abashed that 
his gallantry had been observed, “ I fale much refreshed.” 

“ Well, come along, then ; it’s time we were off.” 

“ Good-by, thin, Molly, my dear, for one long wake.” 

“Ye’re nothin’ but a wild Irishman,” said Molly, half 
angry, and half laughing ; “ but mind ye, come in the 
toggery I tould ye on, or don’ t ye come at all. ' ’ 


LARRY MEETS HIS FATE. 


79 


“ Don’t ye fear. Whin I come agin, yer other swate- 
hearts will be like the stars when the sun comes over the 
mountain.” 

“ An’ hist 1” continued Molly ; “ don’t ye come up to 
the house, or mother’ll take yer life. I’ll mate ye at the 
wather.” 

That night Larry made known his purpose to enlist at 
once. In vain Saville protested. Like the immortal 
Romeo, Larry had found his Juliet, and was in feverish 
haste to don the uniform that would give him an “ aven 
sthart wid the other spalpeens of swatehearts, ” whose imag- 
ined rivalry, Molly had shrewdly guessed, would be a most 
powerful incentive to prompt action. 

“ But don’t ye mind, yer honor ; it’s in the ’tillery I’m 
goin’ to ’list, and so I can do yer odd jobs jist the same.” 

‘ ‘ Are you going to marry that carroty- headed girl over 
there ?” 

“ If ye spake of the swate crathur in that way, divil a turn 
will I do for ye agin.” 

‘ ‘ Mark my words, Larry, you are giving up one master 
to find a harder one,” at which his quondam servant went 
growling and muttering away. 

Larry was true to his tryst, and the reader may be assured 
that the strategic Molly was not absent. After two or three 
meetings, in which she nearly tormented the poor fellow 
out of his senses, with fear and jealousy of the mythical 
“ swatehearts” who were just about to carry her off, Molly 
permitted the entrancing concession to be wrung from her, 
“ I will stale away wid ye to the praste, if I kin only git a 
pair o’ shoes.” 

Having received this sweet assurance of affections won, 
Larry, on his return, made pacific overtures to his former 
master. 

“Ye know that I served ye long and faithfully.” 


8o 


NEA/^ TO NATURE^ S HEART. 


“ Well, that will do for preface. What do you want 
now, Larry?” 

“ Faix, sur, an’ if ye’ll give me a pair o’ yer shoes. I’ll 
do many a good turn to pay for ’em.” 

‘ ‘ With all respect for your understanding, Larry, I don’ t 
think they’ll fit you.” 

” I’ve taken the measure of a fut as they will fit, yer 
honor.” 

“ Oh ! I see now ; yes, yes, there are the shoes ; and 
by the way, Larry, I have a pair of leather breeches which 
you may take her also ; for she struck me as one who would 
be sure to wear them before long.” 

” Bless yer honor, ye mustn’t judge all the women o’ the 
world by yer own bad luck. ” And with this home- thrust, 
Larry went chuckling away with the shoes that were to con- 
summate his happiness. 

Before a week of wedded bliss had passed, the newly 
fledged artilleryman found that he had, indeed, exchanged 
his old master for a more exacting one, and he dubbed the 
redoubtable Molly ‘ ‘ captain, ’ ’ long before she won the 
title by her military prowess. 


LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE, 


Si 


CHAPTER IX. 

LEFT TO nature’s CARE. 

T he changes that war was about to make, in the wild 
and secluded region which Vera’s father had chosen 
as his retreat and hiding-place, soon began to manifest 
themselves. The arrival of the engineer. Colonel Romans, 
with his working force, at Constitution Island, was discov- 
ered almost immediately by the young girl, while out upon 
one of her excursions, in the latter part of August. Nor 
could the advent of the soldiery be kept from her father, as 
the morning and evening guns, and the notes of the drum 
and fife, announced their presence, with startling distinct- 
ness, in the quiet summer air. 

At first the morbid and conscience- stricken man was in 
great excitement and alarm, and, with the tendency com- 
mon to persons in his condition, connected the unlooked- 
for event with danger to himself. His fears led him to 
propose that they should all leave their home, and seek 
some more secluded spot far back in the mountains ; but 
for once his meek and gentle wife was firm in her opposition 
to his will. She saw that her husband’s mind had become 
so warped that it was no longer capable of correct judgment 
in any matter w^here his fears were concerned. The reason 
for the military occupation of the island opposite she had 
not yet learned, but could not see how it necessarily threat- 
ened them with danger. Moreover, her desire that Vera 
might form acquaintances, who could rescue her eventually 


82 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 


from a seclusion that might at last leave the girl utterly 
alone in the world, increased daily. In spite of her false 
hopes, which were a part of her disease, and an earnest de- 
sire to live, she had failed so rapidly, during the oppressive 
heats of summer, that vague fears for the future often gave 
her great uneasiness. She clearly recognized her husband’s 
growing distemper of mind, and old Gula was still less to 
be depended upon. How could she leave her child so 
friendless and unshielded ? 

In her terrible anxiety, the gentle creature would at times 
become almost stern and fierce in her appeals to heaven, 
crying : 

“ O God ! as thou art good and true, preserve my child, 
and bring her to me at last, pure and unspotted from the 
world. I commit her to thy care, and I hold thee to thy 
many promises. ” 

While her growing weakness made it apparent, even to 
her husband, that she could not be moved, and he was 
thus induced to remain in his present home, he continued 
steady and unrelenting in his determination that no acquaint- 
ances should be formed with the new-comers. Of this pur- 
pose Vera and her mother had a very disheartening illustra- 
tion about the middle of October. 

One day, just as they were about to sit down to their 
meagre dinner, the two huge dogs bounded out from the 
door-step, with fiercest clamor. 

Mr. Brown, as he may be called at present, sprang up, 
and was only in time to prevent a conflict between a stranger 
and the savage beasts. 

Vera also ran to the door, in order to see the cause of 
the alarm and her heart throbbed quickly, as she recognized 
in the stranger the young man who had surprised her, in 
the manner already described, while fishing. 

“ Back, Tiger and Bull," said their master ; and, as the 


LEFT TO NATURE^ S CARE, 83 

dogs reluctantly obeyed, he advanced with a dignity which 
Saville was quick to recognize, and said, coldly, 

“ Have you any special business with me?’' 

The young man commenced replying suavely, and in a 
manner which he hoped would pave the way to an acquaint- 
ance ; but, still more coldly and sternly came the interrupt- 
ing question : 

“ Have you any business with me, sir ?” 

“ I cannot say that I have, save that as a temporary 
neighbor I would be glad to show myself neighborly.” 

The man regarded him suspiciously, but continued, with 
the same repelling coldness, 

“ You have the bearing of a gentleman.” 

“ Yes, sir ; and the character and standing of one.” 

“ I shall put that assertion to the test,” was the forbid- 
ding response ; “ and if you fail to make it good, I shall 
know how to act hereafter. I desire seclusion for myself 
and family. This cottage, though very humble, is my 
castle, and I regard any visits to it or to this locality as an 
intrusion.” ■ 

Saville flushed deeply, for, if this man were a guilty out- 
law, he could assume a hauteur and loftiness which were 
oppressive. He felt almost as if an ancient baron were 
ordering him, as a poacher, off his grounds. But in the 
face of Vera, who stood excited, trembling, in the doorway, 
he thought he detected a different and friendly expression ; 
so he made one more effort to remove the suspicious exclu- 
siveness of the father. 

“ But suppose I come in the spirit of kindliness,” he 
said. 

“ I thought I made it clear that I desired no visits what- 
ever,” was the stern reply. 

“ You are unwise, sir,” said Saville with corresponding 
haughtiness. “I am an officer and a gentleman, and as 


84 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


such might have extended protection to you and your 
family. This region will soon become full of armed men, 
and how can you escape visits from the rude soldiery, who 
may not always be over-scrupulous 

“ They will come at peril to life and limb,'' said the man 
savagely ; and he began to show symptoms of great agita- 
tion. 

Saville saw that the young girl’s eyes had overflowed with 
tears, that her hands were clasped, and that her whole man- 
ner was a mute appeal. But whether it was to leave them 
at once, or to give unasked, the protection against the 
danger at which he had hinted, and which her father had so 
harshly refused, he could not tell. He also saw that the 
man was becoming excited and dangerous, and that the 
dogs, quickly catching their master's spirit, were bristling 
toward him. Vera sprang down with words of rebuke, and 
soon had the fierce animals crouching at her feet. As she 
stood between them in her simplicity and unconscious 
beauty, tears gemming her eyes like dew upon violets, she 
made a picture that Saville did not soon forget. 

With a silent bow and smile to her, which she returned 
by a grave and graceful inclination, he turned away, and 
soon disappeared among the trees. He had seen enough, 
however, to kindle his vivid imagination, and on his way 
back among the hills, in search of game, indulged in many 
wild surmises in regard to the people who so resolutely 
secluded themselves. But he could scarcely fail in reaching 
the conclusion that fear was the motive, and that the man 
was hiding from the consequences of some act of the past, 
the discovery of which would lead to terrible punishment. 
It was still more certain that he had belonged to the superior 
and educated classes, for his unkempt appearance and rude 
attire could not disguise his proud and stately bearing. At 
the same time, even the brief glimpse that Saville had caught 


LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. 85 

of the externals of the cabin, proved that some one dwelt 
there who had an eye and a love for beauty. 

The rude logs were prettily disguised by crimson festoons 
of the American ivy. Clumps of eglantine with equally 
brilliant foliage stood on either side of the open door, 
through which he could see a little of the rustic decoration 
within. The impression, however, that the man was a 
criminal chilled his desire for personal acquaintance, and 
save some generous pity that the fair young girl should be 
left to develop under such forbidding circumstances, he 
soon became indifferent to the inmates of the cabin from 
which he had been so rudely repelled. With the exception 
of the maiden, the other inmates were probably subjects for 
the detective and constable. Whether right or wrong, 
Saville was as open as the day, and had no taste for mysteries 
or crime. 

But the results of his attempted visit were not so slight or 
transient in the little cabin among the mountains. Vera, 
and especially her mother, were bitterly disappointed. To 
the latter it seemed as if a providential opportunity of gain- 
ing some hold on the outside world had been lost ; and 
when her husband became calmer, she so remonstrated with 
him that he half regretted his own action. But the trouble 
was that he could not be depended on, for when his mind 
had been enabled for a moment to struggle toward a correct 
judgment, another dark and engulfing wave of fear would 
sweep over it, carrying him back into the depths of his old 
despondency and morbid dread of strangers. 

But the remark of Saville, that the region would soon be 
filled with armed men, while it greatly increased his uneasi- 
ness, also kindled a faint gleam of hope. In his occasional 
expeditions to distant villages for the purpose of barter, he 
had heard faint mutterings of the storm that had now broken 
over the land. The only hints which he had obtained were 


86 


J\rEAJ? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


from the casual remarks of others, for he had feared to ask 
questions, as this would give the right to question him. He 
was regarded, at the few places where he traded, as an odd, 
half-deranged man, and received but little thought or atten- 
tion. Indeed, it was his policy to assume something like 
imbecility on all matters save that of securing a fair return 
for his merchandise. 

The few expressions which he had happened to hear, in- 
dicating trouble between England and her colonies, had 
made but little impression on him, however, as the idea 
that there could be any resistance, to her mighty power never 
entered his mind. But now what else could the presence 
of so many soldiers mean, save resistance ? Were the 
soldiers that had already come, and that were coming, 
under British rule or hostile to it ? If they were English 
troops, nothing could induce him to remain. If they were 
American forces in armed rebellion, then there would be 
hope that in their success he might finally escape the juris- 
diction of English law. His mind became so far aroused 
and clear that he was enabled to act intelligently, though 
characteristically. Instead of going over to Constitution 
Island, where he might readily have learned the situation, 
he prepared a large pack of articles for barter, and started for 
a distant village down the river. Here he assumed his old, 
stolid manner ; but he heard enough to so stimulate his 
curiosity and awaken his hopes that he at last brought him- 
self to question an old and inoffensive appearing man who 
was working alone in his garden. Learning from him the 
principal facts which had thus far transpired, and the open 
resistance into which the colonies had gradually passed, he 
started for home in a state of wild and almost exultant ex- 
citement. At first, he half proposed to take an open p«rt 
in the struggle. But long before he reached his cabin, the 
old wave of morbid fear returned, and the habit of secretive- 


LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. 


87 


ness, and disposition to shrink from every one, resumed 
their mastery. He decided to remain in his present home 
as a post of observation. 

“ ril wait and see what headway the rebellion makes,'' 
he muttered ; “ for if it fails after I have committed myself 
to it, I am lost utterly." The man had become such a 
wreck of his former self that his only thought was for his 
own personal safety. His terrible secret had seemingly 
blasted every generous and noble trait with its deadly shade. 

During his absence Vera and her mother ardently hoped 
that the young stranger might come again. Vera even went 
down to the shore, and looked wistfully at the island oppo- 
site, from which the din of labor on the fortifications came 
faintly across the river. But she saw not the one to whom 
she now felt she could almost find courage to speak, and 
ask for that protection which he had intimated they might 
need. 

During the summer and autumn, they had been left 
utterly alone. Even Vera, in her youth and inexperience, 
had become alarmed at her mother's feebleness and hacking 
cough, and her thoughtful efforts to alleviate and help were 
as pathetic as they were beautiful. She felt that they had a 
very trying winter before them, and knew that her father 
could be depended upon less and less as a support. But 
she induced him to repair the cellar under the cabin, so 
that the vegetables from a small garden might be stored 
securely. She also had persuaded him to enlarge a spring 
near the house into a little pond, and in this her skill 
enabled her to place quite a number of fish. She did her 
best to follow the example of her wild playmates of the 
woods, that were busy most of the time in providing against 
the cold, dark days to come, and she even diminished the 
squirrels’ hoards, by the quantities of nuts which she gath- 
ered and dried for winter use. She also carefully noted the 


88 


TO NATURE'S HEART, 


haunts of rabbits, partridges, and quails, and prepared traps 
and snares which could be used when the snow covered the 
ground. 

But, as the autumn winds sighed through the mountains, 
she sighed also ; for a strange depression and boding of evil 
was stealing over her. Her face, which had been full of 
sunshine and mirthfulness even in darkest days, grew un- 
wontedly thoughtful and oppressed with care ; but her fea- 
tures were none the less lovely, as they began to express 
womanly solicitude and responsibility instead of a child’s 
light- hearted confidence. In her mother’s presence she ever 
sought, however, to maintain her cheerful hopefulness. 
But the mother’s love pierced all disguises, and it was one 
of the bitterest drops in her overflowing cup that her child 
should be so early and heavily burdened. 

The bond of clinging affection appeared to grow stronger 
and tenderer between mother and daughter, as their rela- 
tions toward each other changed, and Vera began to give 
the failing parent the care she had once received herself. 
There were days when the poor woman could scarcely leave 
her bed, and then Vera’s every touch was a caress. But 
the bracing air of autumn and winter appeared to agree with 
the invalid better than the relaxing heat of summer. The 
generous diet of game which Vera carefully prepared did 
much also to keep up her strength. But perhaps her gain 
in vigor was due to the element of hope which her sympa- 
thetic spirit caught from her husband ; for he had at once 
informed his wife of the struggle that was commencing with 
the Power he dreaded, and both felt that in its success 
would come a calming sense of security. The wife urged 
her husband to take an open part in the conflict, correctly- 
judging that daily contact with others would be the best 
antidote against his habit of morbid brooding. But in his 
unnaturally developed caution and shrinking fear of dis- 


LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. 


89 


covery, the man was not equal to this, and, for the time, 
became only a secret and anxious watcher of the events 
which he hoped might work out his deliverance. The habit 
of suspiciously shunning every one had grown to be a dis- 
ease. Indeed, so warped had he become that he began to 
dread lest his wife — the only one in this land who knew his 
dire secret — might reveal it to Vera in some unguarded 
moment ; and at times he even harshly cautioned her against 
such a possibility. 

Thus the winter passed rather sadly and drearily away. 
Vera's powers were taxed to their utmost as nurse, watcher, 
and housekeeper. Her father also had bad days when noth- 
ing could induce him to leave his dusky corner, and then 
her hands and feet were pinched with cold, as she visited the 
traps and snares among the hills, carrying the fowling-piece 
also, in order that their meagre larder might not become 
utterly bare. 

In the midst of her deepening anxiety and increasing 
burdens her mystic sympathy with nature increased, and she 
found comfort and companionship even in the wintry land- 
scape. Bible ideas and imagery blended with what she saw 
around her. As with the lightness of a fawn she bounded 
through the newly fallen snow, she would exclaim with an 
ecstatic thrill of hope, 

“ My robe, one day, will be as white and sparkling, and 
the gems in my crown brighter than the icicle’s gleam hang- 
ing over yonder ledge of rocks. God teaches me, even in 
winter, by such pretty things, what He is preparing for His 
children." 

When at times every branch, spray, and twig was encased 
with snow, and the evergreens were bending beneath their 
fleecy burdens, she would be half wild with delight at the 
beauty of the scene, and would cheer her mother by saying, 

“ See what God can do in a single night. Won't our 


90 


JVEAIi TO NATURE'S HEART. 


mansions in heaven, which we so often read about, be 
beautiful, mother ? for he has had ever so many years in 
which to prepare them. Don’t you think he is making 
them prettier all the time ?” 

“Yes, Vera,” her mother would reply; “as we grow 
better, God makes them prettier. Never distrust Him, for 
you see what He can do even in this world which is so full 
of evil and trouble.” 

Thus, every beautiful object in nature became to the 
young girl an evidence of her Heavenly Father's good-will 
and love, and an assurance that He would fulfill at last all 
the wonderful promises of the Bible. And dark and dreary 
days, and disagreeable things, were expressions of the evil 
in the world, from which she had His promise also, that 
she should be protected, and finally delivered. 

Often, when the cold, bitter wind was blowing, and the 
trees and shrubbery were tossing in its power, she would 
draw a slender spray with its securely encased buds against 
her glowing cheeks, as she said, caressingly, 

“ Don’t fear ! We shall be taken care of. Next May 
will be like last May, and the wind will come softly from 
the south.” 

Again, she would stand in the snow upon a violet bank, 
and call, 

“ Heigh-ho, down there, tucked away in your winter 
bed ! Do you ever dream of me in your sleep ?” 

Thus nature, even in mid-winter, suggested to her child 
sleep rather than death ; and hope, instead of fear and de- 
spair ; and when her heart grew heavy and full of vague 
forebodings of evil, as she saw her mother’s weakness, and 
her father so deeply enshrouded in gloom, she would take 
her trusty gun and one of the great dogs, and spend hours 
among the defiles of the mountains, finding peace and good 
cheer, where to another would have been only blackness 


LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. 91 

and desolation, or the awful solitude and grandeur of a 
mountain landscape in winter. While Vera's character was 
simplicity itself, this noble companionship with things that 
were grand and large, though at times stern, took away 
utterly the elements of silliness and triviality which make 
many young girls at her age a weariness to all save those as 
empty as themselves. And the sternness of many scenes was 
more apparent than real ; for in frowning ledges of rocks 
Vera found cosy nooks in which she was protected from the 
winds as she rested, and the sun would often light up the 
face of the precipice, as a smile might illumine the rugged 
features of one who seemed harsh and cold in nature, but 
who, on closer acquaintance, would be found to possess 
traits that are kindly and gentle. 

The winter passed, and Vera was being prepared for the 
part she must take in life — for temptations and ordeals 
which would test the strength and integrity of the strongest. 
Her teachers were not such as the fashionable would choose 
or desire — sickness and sorrow at home, and the solitude of 
wintry mountains without ; and yet these stern-visaged in- 
structors made, their pupil more sweet, unselfish, and 
womanly every day. They endowed her with patience, 
and, at the same time, inspired her with hope. Moreover, 
she had the two grand books of the world, the Bible and 
Shakspeafe ; and often as she watched in the corner of the 
wide fireplace, she half read and half brooded over their 
glowing pages, until her own mind was full of thronging 
thoughts and fancies, which, in their beauty and character, 
were at least akin to those she read. 

Still, she often had a sense of loneliness, and the natural 
craving for a wider companionship and sympathy. From 
the day on which she had at first met Saville, there had 
been in her mind a vague, faint unrest, and a desire to 
know more of the world to which he belonged. His 


92 


JVEA/^ TO NATURE’S HEART, 


attempted visit had greatly increased this desire, and concen- 
trated her thoughts upon him as the only one concerning 
whom she had any knowledge, or who had shown any 
interest in her. She often found herself vividly recalling the 
two occasions on which she had seen him, and which had 
ended so unsatisfactorily. His manner, appearance, and 
his words and tones even, were dwelt upon ; and he became 
to her like one of Shakspeare’s knightly and heroic char- 
acters — half real, half ideal. She would end by sighing, 

“ He has probably gone away, and thinks of us only as 
rude, ill-mannered mountaineers." 

As spring advanced her mother failed rapidly, and Vera's 
heart and hands became too full for thoughts of aught else 
save the deepest and tenderest solicitude. Old Gula shook 
her head more frequently and ominously, and Vera had the 
most painful misgivings. 

One day, after her mother had recovered from a terrible 
paroxysm of coughing, she followed the old negress to the 
little kitchen, and asked, 

" Why do you shake your head so discouragingly 

" Ise a tinkin’ dat missis is a bearin' voices as well as ole 
Gula. " 

‘ ‘ What voices ' 

“ You’se can't understan’, chile; buf you will, some 
day. Dey come to de homesick like." 

" Where do they come from .?" 

" Why, from home, honey. You’se mudder is like ole 
Gula— far from home. I heerd her a talkin’ in her sleep 
of a green, flowery island, way off 'yond de big water. She, 
no more’n ole Gula, hab allers lived 'mongdese cold, stony 
mountains. An' now de voices is a callin’ her home." 

" Do you think — do you think mother — oh ! can mother 
die said Vera, in a terrified whisper. 

" Dunno nuffin ’bout dyin’, child ; don’t tink dere’s any 


LEFT TO NATURE^ S CARE, 


93 


such ting. But some day you’ 11 find dis ole body lyin’ cold 
and still, but ’twon’t be Gula, ’twon’t be me. I’ll be far 
away, a followin’ de voices ober de big wabes, where de 
floatin’ miseries go, and Gula will be home where de sun 
shines warm all de time, and de palm-trees wave. Oh I — 
oh I — ole Gula’s heart is sore; sore wid waitin’.” And 
the poor creature threw her apron over her head, and rocked 
herself back and forth in all the tropical demonstrativeness 
of grief. 

But Vera’s heart was sore also, and finding that she was 
losing self-control, she hastened out into the twilight, and 
sitting down upon a rock back of the cabin, sobbed as if 
her heart would break. 

Gula soon forget her own grief in the young girl’s distress, 
and removing her apron, her quaint, wrinkled face became 
full of commiseration. At last she rose and hobbled to her, 
and laying her hand on the bowed head, said in husky tones, 

“ Dare, dare, po’ young missis ; don’t take on so. You 
mustn’t be sorry dat you’se mudder’s goin’ home. When 
she gits back where she lived afore, she won’t be sick any 
mo’. ” 

“ Oh ! — oh ! — oh ! — there’s no use of trying to be blind 
any more. Mother is going home ; but not to England — 
to a better home than that. But, oh ! — to be left alone— 
what shall I do ? how can I bear it ?” 

Calming herself by a great effort, she at last returned to 
her mother, who had surmised her daughter’s distress, and 
looked at her so wistfully that Vera again lost self-control, 
and kneeling by the bed, gave way to an agony of grief. 

“ O mother, ” she sobbed, “ how can you leave me ?” 

The poor woman gave her child a startled look, and then, 
more fully than ever before, realized the inevitable separa 
tion soon to come ; she also saw that the sad truth could be 
no longer concealed from Vera. Reaching out her feeble 


94 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 


hands, she took her child into her arms, and they wept to- 
gether till both were exhausted. Then the mother whispered 
the old sweet refrain that had soothed and sustained her 
through so many troubled years : 

“ ‘ Let not your heart be troubled, neither Jet it be afraid. 
In my Father’s house are many mansions’ — I think I shall 
soon be in mine, Vera ; and I will watch and wait for you.” 

“ I don’t want another mansion, mother. I’ll ask God 
to let me live with you. One mansion will be enough for 
us both. Oh, why can’t I go with you 

“ Your father needs you here, Vera. Oh, my poor hus- 
band ! For my sake he fell into this gulf of darkness. Had 
it not been for me ” 

“ Hush !” said a stern voice ; and mother and child be- 
came very still, the one oppressed by a dark secret known, 
and the other by the same secret unknown, but which the 
girl, even in her inexperience and ignorance of evil, began 
to realize must be very sad and dreadful. She retired for a 
time to her little grotto-like apartment in the side of the hill, 
and then came back calm and strengthened, and entered 
upon her patient watch. 

The husband, who had been a silent, and, up to the time 
of his harsh interruption, a forgotten witness of the scene 
just described, was terribly agitated by contending emotions. 
The words he had heard had aroused him from his deep 
preoccupation, and he too began to realize for the first lime 
that his wife might be near her end — that this was more than 
a temporary illness. His mind was not so utterly warped 
but that he foresaw his loss with the keenest anguish. He 
had loved this faded, dying woman with all the strength of 
his nature, and the thought that she could die and leave 
him had never been entertained. But now it came like a 
revelation — a lightning flash into his darkness, making every- 
thing the darker thereafter. At one moment his heart would 


LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. 


95 


yearn toward her with an infinite tenderness and remorse ; 
and then the thought would come surging up, born of his 
guilty secret and demoralizing fear, that if she died, no one, 
at least in this land, would know the past. It seemed to 
him that he had arrested her just as she was on the point of 
revealing the secret to his child. She might do so still. 
He remembered that the dying were prone to unburden 
their hearts to some one. He determined that this must be 
prevented at all hazards ; and in spite of his morbid suspi- 
ciousness, he still had such trust in the woman who had 
been so true to him, as to be satisfied that if she gave him 
her solemn promise to be dumb — never to tell even Vera — 
she would keep her word. 

When their daughter had left them alone, he said abrupt- 
ly, and yet in a tone that trembled, 

“ Esther, are you going to die ?’ ’ 

“ Yes, Guy,'’ said the wife, wearily and faintly. 

After a moment, and still more tremblingly, the man 
said, 

“ Will you protect me to the last, as you have in all these 
years ?” 

“Yes, Guy.’' 

“ Will you give me your word, which you have never 
broken, not to tell even Vera ?“ 

“ Yes, Guy ; not even Vera.'' 

“ Will you swear it ?’’ he said hoarsely. 

“ God is my witness, I will be silent. The deed was not 
done in malice— God will forgive you, Guy. Oh, let the 
‘ Lamb of God which taketh away the sins of the world ’ 
lift the load from your heart. He has from mine. But 
how — how can I leave you and my darling child? And 
yet you may be better off without me. I fear I have be- 
come a burden. *' 

The man gave way, and throwing himself down on his 


96 


JV£AJ? TO NATURE'S HEART, 


knees beside his wife, groaned and sobbed in a perfect tem- 
pest of grief. 

‘ '■ I’ve blighted your life, Esther, ” he cried. ‘ ‘ Think what 
you might have been. You might have dwelt in a palace.” 

” Hush, Guy,” said his wife solemnly. ” If all could 
be done over again from that night when you came and told 
me what had happened, I would act just the same. I loved 
you then. I love you now, and God loves you.” 

” What kind of a God is he that permits such horrors.?” 
groaned the wretched man, showing that even the love of 
the unbelieving can in such emergencies do little else than 
wound and pain those who cling to them. 

” He is the God who only can deliver from such horrors, 
and remedy the fatal mistakes and deeds of this life, ” said 
his wife eagerly. 

“ How has He remedied them ? You are dying, and 
we will be left alone in this dreary wilderness, in which wc 
must cower and hide till we also die. ’ ’ 

” O Guy, Guy, time is short, and eternity very long. 
So trust, so live, that all may be well hereafter. I shall wait 
for you and Vera ; and it seems to me that heaven will not 
begin till you both come to me.” 

The man was silent, and became more composed. 

“And Guy,” continued his wife faintly, for she was 
growing very weary, “ I fear this utter seclusion is unwise 
and unsafe. It may be fatal to Vera’s happiness. Go out 
and take an open part in this conflict for liberty. You will 
be your old self after you have mingled awhile with your 
fellow men. ” 

“ Not yet,” groaned the man. ” I dare not yet.” 

The wife sighed deeply, but said no more. But her sore 
heart was comforted when her husband rose and for the first 
time for years bent over her, giving a kiss and gentle caress, 
as he said. 


LEFT TO NATURE'S CAKE. 


97 


Pcor little wife, you have been faithfulness itself.” 

Then he went back to his dusky corner ; but the watch- 
ful glitter of his eyes was often dimmed with tears ; and 
Vera found on her return that her mother had fallen into 
the deep sleep of utter exhaustion. 

The spring night deepened and darkened, but a shadow 
darker than the night had fallen across the cottage ; for all 
at last realized that death was near. Toward morning the 
man dozed in his chair, but Vera’s eyes were fixed with a 
wide and fearful gaze into that dread future when she shoujd 
be alone in the world that to her was so strange and unex- 
plored. More than once the thought crossed her mind in 
reference to Saville, 

” If he knew, would he come.?” 

And yet all through that interminable night, she was sus- 
tained and comforted by the memory of One who she felt 
sure would know and care. 

But in the light of the lovely May morning, and in view 
of the fact that her mother seemed a little stronger and 
easier, hope revived. 

“Father, I think a surgeon might help mother,” said 
Vera with decision. 

The man gave his daughter a startled look, and her words 
had evidently awakened a sudden conflict in his mind. But 
his aroused and better nature prevailed. 

“Perhaps he might,” he faltered; “perhaps he 
might.” 

“ Then where can one be found .?” 

He strode up and down the room a moment, then cast- 
ing a compassionate look at his wife, muttered, 

“She shall have the chance, cost me what it may.” 
Then aloud to Vera — “ There is no doubt a surgeon at the 
garrison on the Island. ” 

“ I will go lor him at once,” said Vera. 


98 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


“ Will you — will you go V said her father with an air of 
great relief. 

“Yes, if I could only keep mother with us, I would go 
anywhere and face anything.’" 

The poor woman smiled faintly, but shook her head. 

But old Gula barred Vera’s exit, till she had finished her 
morning bowl of bread and milk. 

“ You’se not a speriit, honey, do’ you’se growin’ to look 
mighty like one. ’’ Old Gula had considerable sense still 
in spite of her weird ways. 

“ I will take our little skiff out of its hiding-place and 
launch it for you,” said her father ; “ and I will be on the 
watch with my rifle all the lime to see that no harm comes 
to you. ’’ 

In less than an hour Vera’s light shell shot out of a little 
cove above the point of land opposite Constitution Island, 
and was soon dancing on the waves raised by the southern 
breeze blowing against the tide. 

Saville was engaged as usual, directing the work upon 
the fortifications, when a casual glance toward the river re- 
vealed to him the approaching skiff. Its occupant so puz- 
zled him that he hastened for his glass, and soon recognized 
the shy maiden who had eluded him on the point just op- 
posite, and whom he had half forgotten. But now she 
seemed coming boldly to the shore a little below where he 
stood. As Vera looked around and saw who it was, she 
seemed startled, and rested on her oars. 

“ Are you, too, afraid of me?” asked Saville kindly. 

Her reply was a few vigorous strokes which brought her 
boat to his feet, and then rising steadily, she stepped lightly 
to the shore, before he could offer his hand. 

“ You see I trust you, sir,” she said simply, as she stood 
tremblingly before him with downcast eyes. 

“ And am I such an ogre that you fled from me once. 


LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. 


99 


and now tremble before me as if I might eat you up ? 
Though if I were an ogre I should be sorely tempted to fall 
to ; for I doubt if one ever sat down to a daintier meal.’' 

The young girl’s eyes overflowed with tears, as her only 
reply to this light badinage. 

“You are in trouble,’’ said Saville quickly, and in a very 
different tone. 

“ Yes,” was all that Vera could say. 

“ Tell me what 1 can do for you ?’’ 

Putting her hand upon her bosom to still its wild throb- 
bing, caused by embarrassment, excitement, and her violent 
exercise, she at last was able to say, 

“ Is there — I would see a surgeon.” 

“ Sit down, my child, and rest. Do not be afraid ; you 
may trust me fully. I will bring the surgeon to you. ” 

“lam much beholden to you for your courtesy,” said 
Vera, naturally falling into the quaint language of the book 
with which she was so familiar, and whose courtly phraseol- 
ogy seemed to her appropriate in addressing a stranger. 

Saville was interested in the contrast between her stately 
words and simple, grateful manner, for she was much re- 
lieved at finding that she need not face the stare of the 
garrison. 

Calling one of his men, Saville told him to stand guard, 
and permit no one to approach his protegee, and then hast- 
ened for the surgeon. Neither he nor the man who stood 
mechanically at his post, though with many a curious glance 
at the strange visitor, realized that their good behavior was 
greatly to their advantage ; for if they had been capable of 
anything else, an unerring rifle would have spoken from 
the opposite shore. 

Saville soon returned with a stout, burly, but kindly- 
featured man, who, on learning Vera’s errand, looked with 
dismay at the slight skifi 


00 


NEAR TO NATUEE'S HEART, 


“Look ye here, my child,” he said brusquely, “I’m 
not a fairy like yourself, and can’t swim. Did you imagine 
you could take a fully developed surgeon across the river in 
that shell ? I wouldn’t venture in it for twelve months’ pay 
in advance. ” 

Vera turned her face, full of distress and disappointment, 
in mute appeal to Saville, who immediately said, cordially, 

“ That’s right ; you can trust me to keep my promise of 
help ; so don’t spoil your pretty eyes with tears. You can 
lead the way in your skiff, and I will take this healing mon- 
ster over in a pontoon boat, or ship-of-the-line, so that he 
be kept from the element he most dreads. But wait a mo- 
ment, and I’ll get you something that will do your mother 
more good than all his medicines,” and he hastened to his 
quarters, and brought Vera a bottle of French brandy. 
“ There,” he said, “ I put that in your charge ; for it won’t 
do to trust the doctor with it. He will tell your mother 
how to use it, but do not let him show her.” 

But not a glimmer of a smile came into Vera’s face at 
Saville’ s light talk. Indeed, it grated harshly on her ears, 
as she remembered her mother’s critical state. 

“ Now, cheer up,” added Saville kindly, “ and lead the 
way. If our good doctor is helpless on the water, he is 
skillful on the land, and no doubt will soon restore your 
mother to health. ” 

Vera, whose sore heart was in such need of sympathy, lost 
her control at Saville’ s kindly tones and manner, and burst- 
ing into tears, said, 

“ I fear mother is sick unto death and turning hastily 
sprang into her little boat, and was soon out in the stream, 
where she kept the light craft waiting in position, with the 
care and precision of a water-fowl. 

Saville’ s pontoon proved to be a handsomely modeled 
boat of his own, which he kept for his private pleasure or 


LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. 


lOI 


for patroling the river should occasion require, and he soon 
struck out vigorously after Vera’s guiding skiff. She led 
them to a point from which the ascent to the cottage could 
be made with comparative ease. Saville was about to ac- 
company them, having again become interested in the unique 
character of the maiden, and feeling assured that if the cabin 
was the hiding-place of crime, none of its occupants could 
be vulgar criminals ; while the thought of evil was not to be 
entertained in regard to the maiden. But Vera arrested his 
steps, by saying, with painful embarrassment, 

“ Father said I must bring no one save the surgeon.” 
Saville’s quick spirit was hurt, and he flushed resentfully. 
Vera felt herself cruelly trammeled, but was unable to see 
how she could explain the apparently rude requital of his 
kindness. Her troubled face, however, almost instantly 
disarmed him, and he saw that her words were not at all 
prcgjipted by her own feelings ; and when she suddenly 
stepped up to him, and said in a low tone. 

“‘Charity suffereth long and is kind,’” he took her 
hand and answered gently, 

“ Charity also ‘ thinketh no evil.’ You are a good girl, 
though you are rather odd. Good-by, and don’t worry 
about me. May your mother soon get well. ” 

“ And may God requite thy kindness, ” Vera said so ear- 
nestly, that for the moment he felt as if she had appealed to 
One who had an existence. But a moment later, after she 
was gone, he shrugged his shoulders, and soliloquized, 

“ That’s the way it always is — crime and superstition go 
together. That girl’s parents, who no doubt are hiding from 
the constable, are very religious, and have taught this poor 
child their pious jargon. Still she seems to have the natural 
grace to use it with skill and taste. She is, indeed, very 
odd, and her seeming familiarity with the two greatest works 
of fiction in the world is unaccountable in one so young 


102 


ATEA/? TO NATURE'S HEART 


and isolated. I must find some means of propitiating her 
churlish father ; for I would like to pursue this strange ac- 
quaintance further. ” 

The surgeon’s practiced eye at once saw that Vera’s moth- 
er was in the last stages of consumption, and to the ques- 
tioning and entreating eyes that were turned upon him, 
could only shake his head and say, 

“ Neither I nor any one else can do much for you, mad- 
am ; you must prepare for a better world. ” 

Vera gave a faint cry, as if she had received a mortal 
wound, and was about to give way to her grief, when her 
mother restrained her by saying, 

“ Be calm, darling, for my sake. It is just as I supposed. 
Let us patiently submit to God’s will. ” 

“That’s a good child,’’ added the kindly surgeon. 
“ Try to control yourself and listen to me, and you can 
make your mother’s last days much easier;” and he gave 
full directions, and left alleviating remedies. “ But Saville 
was right,” he concluded, “the brandy will do more to 
sustain your mother at times than anything else. You 
needn’t come back with me. I can find my way to the 
boat.” 

The doctor’s visit had not been so brief but that he had 
been much impressed by the mother’s refinement, and the 
appearance of the cottage. 

“You may depend upon it,” he said to Saville on his 
return, “ those people there are very far from being ordinary 
mountaineers.” 

Thus the young man’s interest was still further stimulated, 
and he resolved, though with no motive of vulgar curiosity, 
if possible, to penetrate the mystery. 

The lovely spring day without, was a dark and dreary 
one within the cabin, for the last hope of recovery had van- 
ished. The husband sank into the deepest gloom, from 


LEFT TO NATURE'S CAFE. 


103 


which nothing could arouse him ; but he was unwontedly 
tender and thoughtful of his wife. From that day he so man- 
aged and provided for the family that Vera could give all her 
time to the sick-room. But this seclusion from her out- 
door life, combined with her broken rest and burden of sor- 
row, told heavily on the young girl, and she was beginning 
to look almost like the ministering spirit Gula had spoben 
of. The mother would often urge her to go out and take 
the air, but Vera would always reply, in the pathetic words 
of one whom in simplicity and fidelity she resembled, “ En- 
treat me not to leave thee.’’ 

And yet it was an unspeakable comfort to the dying 
woman that her husband so provided for the household as 
to leave her beloved child a continuous watcher at her bed- 
side ; for had Vera been compelled, as had often been the 
case in the past, to spend much of her time roaming the 
hills and following the brooks in order to keep up a supply 
of food, the cup of her bitterness would have overflowed. 
As well as she could, in view of her own ignorance of the 
world and the peculiarities of their situation, she tried to 
advise and guard her child in reference to the future. 

“ Let your name,” she said one day, “ which your fjjther 
gave you because he said I had been true to him, express 
your character. Be true to your God and your faith, be 
true to my poor teachings and your own pure womanly 
nature. Let the Bible guide you in all things, and then 
you will always have peace in your heart, and find sympathy 
in nature w’ithout. But rest assured, Vera, however wise 
and greatly to your advantage anything may seem, if your 
Bible is against it, do not hesitate to turn away, for it would 
not end well. Keep thy heart with all diligence. When it 
troubles you — when your old playmates, the innocent flow- 
ers, look at you reproachfully, something will be wrong. 
Keep true, my darling, and our separation won’ t be long. 


104 


NBA/? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


But, oh ! — how can I leave you in the world, so unshielded 
and alone ? O Thou who callest thyself a ‘ covenant- keep- 
ing God,’ fail not my child.” 

Again, at another time she said, “ Vera, one of the most 
painful things' in your future lot will be that you cannot trust 
the judgment of your father. Indeed, you will have to be 
his guardian and protector more truly than he will be yours. 
Be very tender and patient with him, for my sake as well 
a§ from your own love, and yet be firm when your own and 
his interests require it. I do not think this utter seclusion 
wise or safe. It will draw rather than avert suspicion and 
trouble.” 

“ Why does father shrink so from strangers ? Though I 
have often asked, you have never told me much about your 
old life in England.” 

“ Well, my darling, you must be content to know little, 
for your life will be burdened enough, I fear, with your own 
troubles, and I would not add to them those of the past. 
Let it satisfy you to know that your father met with a sudden 
and great misfortune, and was compelled to leave his native 
land. I loved him, and followed him, as I would again, if 
I were free to choose. But, Vera, he took me to a minister 
of God before we left England, and with this plain ring, and 
with sacred words, we were joined in holy wedlock. I had 
thought to be buried with this ring, but it can serve better 
uses.’ I now put it on your hand, as a kind of charm 
against evil. Give no man any rights, Vera ; permit not 
even a caressing touch from one that you may even love, 
unless he will wed you with your dead mother’s ring, and 
in the presence of God’s minister, in accordance with the 
teachings of God’s book.” And she placed the plain gold 
band upon Vera’s finger. 

Did not God inspire the act ? 

Of course Vera had spoken often of Saville’s kindness, and 


LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. 1 05 

the mother seemed to have a presentiment that he might have 
much influence upon her aaughter’s destiny. “ I wish I 
could have seen him, for it is said that the dying often have 
great insight into character,’’ she sighed, one day, as Vera 
was speaking gratefully of his words and manner ; and the 
girl deeply regretted that she had not permitted him to come. 

“ If he ever does seek your acquaintance, find out if he is 
true, above all other things. If truthfulness is wanting, you 
can depend on nothing else. I pray God that he, or some 
other strong, honest friend may be raised up for you ; for 
when I remember the words, ‘ This region will soon be full 
of armed men,’ my heart fails me. I fear your father’s 
manner will only draw suspicion and hostility.” 

Thus the dying mother tried to counsel Vera against the 
time, when, though still a child, she should be entirely de- 
pendent for guidance on her own judgment and conscience. 

After all hope of life had been removed by the surgeon’s 
visit, she failed quite rapidly. Until at last her life seemed but 
a breath, that might cease at any moment. She felt that her 
end was very near, and one day, in the latter part of May, 
would not permit her husband to leave the house. Still, 
she slept most of the time, only rousing, now and then, to 
give the watchers a faint smile. The man sat most of the 
time with his face buried in his hands, overwhelmed with 
remorse and gloom. But Vera’s eyes were continually fixed 
on her mother’s face, as if she feared her treasure might 
vanish should she turn away an instant. 

As the sun sank below the mountains, the sleeper aroused, 
and her face was so peaceful and painless that Vera said : 

” You are better, mother.” 

“ Yes, darling, I shall soon be well. Where’s old Gula ?” 

Vera called her, and the aged negress, with her wrinkled 
face working strangely, stood at her bedside. 

“ Good-by, Gula. Oh ! that among your voices you 


io6 


J\rEAJ? TO NATURE'S HEART, 


could hear that of our Saviour, saying, ‘ Come unto me, and 
I will give you rest/ I shall wait and watch for you, too, 
my poor old friend/' 

“ You'se will git home 'fore ole Gula, but I’se a goin' 
soon — wery soon." And the poor old creature threw her 
apron over her head, and going back to the door-step, rocked 
back and forth, crooning a low, continuous wail of sorrow. 

“ Guy," said the wife. 

Her husband came and took her hand, already cold with 
approaching death. She fixed her large and unnaturally 
bright eyes upon him while he trembled like an aspen in 
his effort at self-control. 

“ Guy," at last she faltered, “ I left all things to follow 
you ; won’t you follow me to the home where we shall be 
safe and at rest ?" 

“ I will try," he groaned. 

“ Be gentle with Vera — be thoughtful of her. If he who 
so kindly aided her in bringing the surgeon comes again, do 
not drive him away." 

The man could not trust himself to speak, but bowed his 
head in assent. 

“ Oh ! my husband," said his wife in sudden and pas- 
sionate earnestness, " I love you ; I would follow you again 
to the ends of the earth. ‘ Let not your heart be so troub- 
led.' " 

With a cry like that of one desperately wounded, he rushed 
from the room, exclaiming, “ My punishment is greater than 
I can bear." 

Her eyes followed him with infinite regret and tenderness, 
and the expression of her face must have been akin to that 
of Christ, as he wept over the doomed and unbelieving city. 
For a few moments she was silent, and her lips moved in 
prayer. Then she turned, and took her child in one last 
dose embrace. 


LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE, 


107 


“Vera, darling, “ she whispered, “it’s only for a little 
while, and then we’ll not part any more. Assurance has 
been given me that He who took into his arms the children 
that mothers brought Him, and blessed them, will take my 
place to you. My heart is not troubled, neither is it afraid. 
I leave you in His charge, and no one shall be able to pluck 
you out of His hands.” 

“ Mother,” said Vera suddenly, “ do you think God 
would permit any one to have two guardian angels ? Might 
he not let me have two, at least till I find some one who 
will take care of me .?” 

“ Well, dear, if He will, what then .?” 

“ It may be selfish, mother darling, to ask you to leave 
heaven ; but God says in His Book that after we go to Him 
we shall be ‘ like unto the angels.’ If He will let you, 
would you mind coming down sometimes to watch over me ? 
I shall be so very, very lonely without you, and if I thought 
you were near me at times, it would be such a comfort.” 

“ I believe he will let me come, darling, and it seems to 
me that not all the joy of heaven could keep me from being 
continually at your side. But whether I can come or not. 
He has said, ‘ I will never leave thee nor forsake thee ;’ and 
His words seem very sure to-day.” 

The mother’s voice, in her mortal weakness, had sunk to 
the lowest whisper. 

After a few moments, she said, “ Can you sing me the 
twenty- third Psalm, darling.?” 

Vera had long before passed beyond sobbing and tears, 
and now possessed the strange, unnatural calmness of those 
who are lifted by some great emergency of sorrow far above 
their ordinary moods and powers. 

Rising from this last close embrace, she chanted those 
sublime yet tender words, which have been like an all-pow- 
erful and sustaining hand to myriads of weary pilgrims in 


io8 ATEAJ? TO NATURE^ S HEART. 

the last dark stage of the journey home. The music was 
simple and improvised, but so sweet and full of pathos, that 
even her father, who had returned, was calmed and melted 
by it, and sat down by Vera’s side to watch and wait for the 
end. The mother’s face was very peaceful, and she seemed 
to be sleeping. Suddenly her eyes opened wide and her 
face appeared illumined by a coming light. Her lips moved, 
and Vera, bending over, heard her whisper, 

“ Oh, my Saviour, hast Thou deigned to come Thyself 
for me ? ‘ Behold the handmaid of the Lord.’ ” 

Then, as if remembering those she was leaving, she looked 
back to them with a smile that Vera never forgot, for it 
seemed spiritual rather than human, and said quite plainly, 
“ Good-by for a little while. All is well. Let not your 
heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” 

Her breast rose and fell with two or three long sighs, and 
then the frail, earthly tabernacle was tenantless, but upon 
the pallid face the departed spirit had left the impress of 
peace. To Vera, in her excited and exalted state, the dusky 
cabin seemed filled with the rustle of angels’ wings. 

“ Is she dead ?” asked the husband in a hoarse whisper. 
” No,” said Vera gently, ” she is in heaven.” 

Her father went back to his dark corner, and sat there 
through the long night, motionless, sleepless, and scarcely 
seeming to breathe. Vera, still holding her mother’s cold 
hand, watched mechanically, too stunned and bewildered to 
think or to realize her loss, and yet sleepless from excitement 
and the long habit of wakefulness. Old Gula brought her 
a cup of milk, but she shook her head. 

” Now, missy, mind your mudder jus’ de same. Wouldn’t 
she say take it ?” and Vera drank it eagerly. 

The night deepened, and was full of the strange, weird 
sounds to which she had always loved to listen, but she did 
not hear them. The silent stars passed over her head as un- 


LEFT TO NATURE'S CARE. 109 

noted as the hours. With the same steadfast gaze she looked 
toward the dead face, which, though hidden by the dark- 
ness, was ever distinctly before her. At last, as the morning 
dawned, the face began to take shape to her outward vision. 
At first it was shadowy and spirit-like, then that of a quiet 
and peaceful sleeper ; but at last a broad ray of light, stream- 
ing through the casement, fell full upon it, giving it a strange 
gladness, and the effect of recovered youth, health, and 
beauty. God seemingly transfigured the wasted features, sug- 
gesting to the desolate young watcher what had really taken 
place in the sunny land “ wherein the inhabitant shall no 
more say, I am sick.'^ To Vera’s strong and simple faith it 
was like the vision of her mother’s glory in heaven, and the 
ray became, and was ever remembered, as an angel of light 
and comfort. 

Then Gula entered and said, “ Keepa-doin’ jus’ as you’se 
mudder would like, honey. Go to de spring and bathe your 
face, and den come and see what I’se got for you.” 

Vera went at once, and the cool water, coming from the 
heart of the mountain, calmed her feverish excitement. She 
sat down on a mossy rock, and looked around like one who 
had entered a new world and a new life, and could not yet 
comprehend it. But gradually the familiar sights and sounds 
of nature gained her attention, and began to speak to her in 
the language she loved and understood so well. 

” Look at us,” said the violets, blooming at her feet. 
“ All last winter we slept in seeming death, as your mother 
is sleeping now ; but at the right time God awakened us, 
and here we are to comfort you.” 

“ Look at me,” said the bubbling spring. “ The black 
ice shut me in, as the black earth will cover your mother, 
but it did not hurt me ; and, sparkling again this morning 
as brightly as ever, I am here to comfort you.” 

“ Listen to us,” said the birds over her head. ” We did 


I lO 


NEAR TO NAT [/RE'S HEART. 


not sing here last winter, but we were singing where the cold 
winds never blow. So your mother has only flown away to 
a sunnier clime, and we are here to comfort you.'" 

“ Look at me," cried the sun, rising in unclouded 
splendor over the eastern hills. “ Do I not come back to 
you after the darkness of the night ? So will He, whose light 
I reflect, shine away your sorrow, and He has sent me to 
comfort you. ' * 

“ Watch me a little while," said a drop of dew, hanging 
on a delicate wind-flower that she had unconsciously pluck- 
ed ; “ and, ere you are aware, the sun will draw me up 
toward himself into the sky. So God has taken your 
mother, and soon he will take you, and he himself will wipe 
away all tears and comfort you." 

Then, to the fancy of the solitary girl, who had little com- 
panionship save that of nature’s children, these voices all 
seemed to join in a swelling chorus : 

“ Oh ! trust with us the great Creator, 

Whose law of love our love enthralls ; 

Unnoted by our Heavenly Father 
Not e'en a fluttering sparrow falls.” 

** Let not your heart be faint and troubled, 

And neither let it be afraid ; 

For God will guard, with care redoubled. 

The child in his own image made.” 

Thus the peace and hopefulness of nature were breathed 
into her heart, and she went back to the cottage, trusting in 
Him to whom all things seemed to point. 

But, when she entered the cabin, and the sleeper did not 
awake with the wonted smile of recognition and words of 
welcome ; when she kissed the cold lips, and found that 
they were indeed cold and unresponsive, a mysterious dread 
chilled her own heart, and the realization of her loss, lone- 


LEFT TO NATURE^ S CARE, 


III 


liness, and helplessness was so vivid as to be well-nigh over- 
whelming. 

But tears, nature’s relief, came at last, and she wept and 
sobbed until she grew quiet from exhaustion. Then Gula 
again resumed her homely ministry, and after inducing the 
Stricken orphan to take a little food, was at last pleased to 
see her escape from sorrow for a time in the deep oblivion 
of sleep. 

The husband, who for many hours had seemed stunned 
and paralyzed by his loss, at last aroused himself, and told 
Gula that he would go with the skiff up the river for a coffin, 
and that it would be late before he returned. Having taken 
some provisions, and leaving the two dogs as protection, he 
departed. 

Vera slept quietly until the time her mother had died the 
previous evening, when something, perhaps, in the recurring 
hour caused her to start up as if called. But time had 
been given for her healthful nature to recuperate, and 
though the sense of desolation, all the more oppressive from 
her father’s absence, was indeed terrible at times, she was 
able to resume her post of watcher for the night, saying to 
Gula, 

“ 1 will feel better sitting here by mother, as if she were 
still alive, than I would anywhere else.” 

” Tse a gwine to stay here wid de young missy,” said 
Gula resolutely ; and she crouched down in the wide fire- 
place, the faint flicker of the flames often giving a strange 
effect to her face and form as she crooned weird snatches of 
the barbarous music learned long ago in her tropical home. 

It was a remarkable group : the mother, once beautiful 
and abounding in hope, now faded and dead in the moun- 
tain cabin ; the exile, the old African princess, who had 
been stolen from her home, and wronged, until her mind 
had become even a greater wreck than her scarred and shriv- 


II2 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 


eled form ; and the young maiden, who was like some of 
her favorite mountain flowers, that grew into fragrant love- 
liness among rocks and cliffs, where it would seem they 
could scarcely live at all. 

The night deepened, and it may be well believed that 
other and viewless watchers gathered round the sorrow- 
stricken girl. 


THE ROBIN HOOD OF THE HIGHLANDS. 113 


CHAPTER X. 


THE ROBIN HOOD OF THE HIGHLANDS. 

S the lovely spring day, which had brought to Vera a 



ir\ brief respite from her sorrow, was drawing to a close, 
a man might have been seen issuing from a log cabin located 
among the mountains west of the Hudson, and at a consid- 
erable distance from the river. His manner was brisk and 
decided, as if he were looking forward to the labors from 
which, in view of the hour, he should naturally be return- 
ing. His house was built very strongly, and appeared as if 
it might be used as a refuge and defense, as well as a dwell- 
ing. The place had a certain rude air of thrift, and yet there 
was nothing to indicate from whence the owner’s revenue 
came. There was no cleared and arable land near, and 
certainly the beautiful horse, that cropped the grass in the 
small inclosure around the cabin, had never served as one of 
a woodman’s team. 

The man’s action was still more irreconcilable with any 
peaceful pursuit ; for he rapidly ascended the lofty hill back 
of his house, which was one of a succession of wooded high- 
lands, stretching away toward the river, and having gained 
the summit, scanned the valley to the westward, giving espe- 
cial attention to some object far distant upon the road lead- 
ing southward. 

As he stood there, partially concealing himself among the 
low trees, glass in hand, we may sketch him briefly. He 
was a little past middle age, tall, and most powerfully built ; 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


I14 

his quick movements, however, adding an impression of 
lightness and something like grace to that of strength. The 
aspect of his face was bold, even to recklessness. He had 
the bearing of one gifted with unlimited natural daring, 
rather than the calm, patient courage which would lead a 
man to die at his post. His restless black eyes had the 
habit of glancing rapidly from side to side, as if he were on 
a perpetual reconnoissance. The light that came from them 
was not the diabolical gleam of those who know themselves 
to be villains, but rather the keen, alert expression often 
seen in beasts of prey. There was scarcely anything to in- 
dicate the presence of a moral nature. The eagle, perched 
upon his eyrie, scanning the valley to see where he could 
swoop down to the best advantage, would be the most cor- 
rect type of this man, Claudius Smith by name, and the ter- 
ror of the whole region, during the early years of the Revo- 
lution. 

Apparently satisfied by his scrutiny, he went rapidly back 
among the hills, instead of returning to his own house. 
Within less than half an hour he reached a secluded glen. 
Before descending this, he again took an observation — not 
of the exquisite landscape, with valleys lying in shadow, and 
rugged highlands aglow with the setting sun, and all decked 
in the tender and tinted foliage of May. The gleam of a 
rifle barrel would catch Smith’s eye instantly, but the per- 
ception of beauty was not in his line. 

Again everything appeared satisfactory, and he descended 
the hill-side nearly to its base, and then, instead of giving 
the conventional signal of thrice whistling, he imitated with 
marvelous exactness the neigh of a horse. A flat stone, 
quite hidden by some copse^wood near where he stood, was 
thrown back, and eight men emerged, as it were, from the 
bowels of the earth, and the leader and his band were to- 
gether. 


THE ROBIN HOOD OF THE HIGHLANDS. 1 15 


“It’s all right, boys,” he said hurriedly. “ I watched 
the squad of militia till they disappeared to the southeast. 
The coast is clear. Meet me, mounted and armed, at my 
house within an hour and with the lightness and celerity 
of movement that characterized him, he vanished among the 
trees. 

His men well understood their part, and were seemingly 
glad to be released from confinement. The presence of 
soldiery in the neighborhood made the resort to this hiding- 
place (of which they had several in the mountains) a precau- 
tion which their leader insisted on, for this Tory gang had 
already become so notorious that parties had attempted their 
capture. After carefully covering the mouth of the cave, 
they went to their secluded mountain homes, or where their 
horses were in hiding, and within the time named, were 
reassembled at Smith’s house, armed and mounted in true 
moss-trooper style. 

Never was a group of Italian bandits among the Apennines 
more picturesque and suggestive of ruthless deeds than these 
highland Tories and Cowboys ; and not a classic brigand of 
them all was more unscrupulous. 

They were all dressed somewhat as their leader, in red 
flannel shirts and short coats, which could be buttoned 
tightly or hang loose like a cavalryman’s jacket Buckskin 
breeches, and topboots armed with spurs, completed their 
simple attire ; but their leathern belts bristled with weapons, 
while across each one’s back was slung a short musket 
Though little more than midnight plunderers, they were ever 
prepared for desperate fighting, should the emergency require 
it As they hastily devoured the rude meal which the wife 
of their leader had prepared, they certainly were a savage- 
looking crew, with their unshaven faces, and eyes gleaming 
out from under slouched hats, which they had not the grace 
to remove. 


Ii6 JVEAJ^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 

But of their horses, the beautiful and innocent accomplices 
of their crimes, too much could scarcely be said in the way 
of praise. And little wonder, for the freebooters had taken 
the pick of the whole country side. The splendid and spir- 
ited beasts made the quiet evening resonant with their neigh- 
ing, as they impatiently pawed the earth while waiting for 
their ignoble masters. 

At last, in the dusky twilight, the men formed a circle 
about the door, and Claudius Smith held aloft a flask of 
whisky, as he cried, 

“ Here's to a big night’s work and he took a heavy 
draught. 

“ Tip it well, boys,” he added ; “for you’ve plenty of 
rough, hard riding before you, and mayhap some fight- 
ing.” 

A shout greeted this announcement, and the flask was 
drained, and filled again for the emergencies of the night. 

Slinging their muskets over their shoulders, they sprang 
lightly into their saddles, and were soon following Smith 
along a rough road which skirted a mountain side. Where 
the road was rough and precipitous, they walked their horses ; 
but at times they would break into a sudden gallop over 
level reaches, showing that they knew every inch of the way. 
At last they descended to the valley, and struck out rapidly 
across the open country, till they approached a secluded 
farm-house, where, drawing rein, they entered the gateway, 
and surrounded the dwelling. 

“ This is the right kind of a Whig, boys, for he’s got a 
pile of hard money stowed away somewheres ; so don’ t let 
him escape. Bring him out. Cole.” 

The man thus addressed dismounted, and taking from 
the adjacent woodpile a log of wood, crashed in the door, 
thus rudely arousing their victim from his slumbers. 

“ If you want to save your life, come out and speak to 


THE ROBIN HOOD OF THE HIGHLANDS, 


me/' shouted Smith ; “ but if you pull a trigger you are a 
dead man. You know Claud Smith." 

The wretched farmer knew him only too well, and called, 
“ ril come as soon as I get my clothes on." 

“ No matter about your clothes. We ain't over modest, 
and it’s not women you've got to deal with, I can tell yer." 

The man, partially dressed, appeared in the doorway, 
with face so pale that it looked white even in the starlight. 

“ Now," continued Smith, “ I’ve got two things agin 
you. Fust, you're a Whig ; and second, you're hoardin' 
up money that others need more'n you do. If you want me 
to let yer off on the first offense, you must bring out every 
shiner you've got." 

"Now, Smith," began the man tremblingly, " you are 
entirely mistaken. I haven't got any " 

" Stop your jaw," said the robber coarsely. "A man 
that’s so near eternity as you be ought to look out how he 
lies." 

" But I tell you I haven't " 

" String him up, boys ; we’ll help his memory." 

They were provided with a rope for such style of persua- 
sion, and throwing it over the well-sweep, they fastened it 
around the neck of their victim, and lifted him off his feet 
for a moment. 

" Can you remember where it is now ?" asked Smith un- 
feelingly. 

But they had misjudged their man, for he had that kind 
of passive courage and obstinacy which rises up against out- 
rage, and is strong to endure. Moreover, his gold was his 
heart’s treasure, and he doggedly resolved to part with life 
first ; so he said, 

" I know you. Smith ; you've no more feeling than a 
stone. I expect you’ll take my life any way, but you 
shan’t have my money." 


ii8 


JV£AIC TO NATURE^ S HEART 


“ Oh ! you want some more persuasion, do you? Up 
with him again, boys/' 

They kept him struggling and strangling as long as they 
dared and still preserve the breath of life, and then let his 
feet rest on the ground. 

“ Now you see how mistaken you are, and how tender- 
hearted I am. Here I’ve given you another chance for life ; 
but be quick, for this is only the beginning of our night’s 
work.” 

“ No,” gasped the man doggedly. 

“ No ? curse you 1 I’ll soon change that tune. Up with 
him again.” 

With oaths and ribald revilings, the bandits, whose dusky 
figures seemed those of demons, obeyed the diabolical order. 
When they again let him down, the farmer was unable to 
stand ; but, in response to their kicks and questions, he 
maintained an obstinate silence. 

“Shall we string him up and leave him?” asked 
Cole. 

Smith hesitated, and for a moment the man’s life depend- 
ed on the caprice of the bandit’s lawless will. 

Then he said, carelessly, 

“ No, let him alone. I rather like his grit, and I’ve 
nothing agin him. If I had, old feller, I wouldn’t even 
give you time to say your prayers. Let us look for our- 
selves, boys. Mayhap we’ 11 find enough to pay us for com- 
ing out of our way.” 

The victim crawled to his door-step, on which he sat in 
sullen silence while they ransacked his house in no gentle 
style, breaking their way where locks resisted. But the 
farmer had concealed his coin too well for discovery. In 
order to spite him, however, they carried off many valuable 
papers, and all light articles of value on which they could 
lay their hands, and with the parting salutation of a kick to 


THE ROBIN HOOD OF THE HIGHLANDS. 1 19 

their half-murdered host, they vanished in tlie darkness as 
rapidly as they had come. 

The inmates of farm-houses and cabins trembled as they 
clattered by, but they were safe for that night, as the next 
point at which Smith meant to strike was far distant. It 
was a part of his policy to mislead and bewilder the authori- 
ties by depredations so far apart as to make it seem impossi- 
ble that he and his gang were the authors in each case. 

Their long, swiriging gallop soon brought them to the 
mountains again, and for an hour they slowly ascended the 
precipitous sides ; then, like the wind, they crossed a level 
plateau, and afterward continued through wild and unfre- 
quented roads known to few save themselves, finding breath- 
ing places for their horses when the ascent or descent was 
steep. In about three hours they commenced defiling down 
what was little more than a path, from various points of 
which the gleam of the Hudson River could be seen in the 
starlight. The way was rough and rocky, but their horses 
had been trained for their work by many similar expeditions. 
At last they drew near the recently commenced military 
works at Fort Montgomery, and their approach became 
quiet and stealthy. 

“ We must capture one of the garrison,^’ said Smith ; “ for 
if we can send a full account of what the Whigs are doing 
here, our Tory friends in the city will pay us well for it.'' 

Leaving their horses in a clump of dark, overshadowing 
trees, with several of the party in charge, Smith and three 
others cautiously reconnoitered on foot until they reached 
the unfinished line of the works. Stealing along this a little 
distance, their steps were soon arrested by a slight sound. 
Listening intently for a few moments. Smith turned and 
whispered succinctly, 

“ It’s some- cuss asleep. Leave him to me."" 

Advancing cautiously a few steps further, he saw the faint 


120 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


outline of a sentinel leaning against a small tree, with his 
hands crossed on the muzzle of a musket, above which a 
bayonet gleamed. The Tory, quick at expedients, instantly 
formed a plan for his capture. Summoning his three com- 
rades, he directed them how to support his undertaking. 
He then took from one of them his leather belt, and stole 
noiselessly up behind the tree against which his victim was 
leaning, and whose nasal organ made the night anything but 
musical. Then, like a flash, he threw the belt around both 
tree and man, and secured his prisoner by drawing the 
buckle tight. 

“ Och, Molly, me darlint, hold on a bit. Bloody blazes ! 
what’s ” 

Smith’s hand stopped further utterance, and then a hand- 
kerchief was tied securely over his mouth. The other 
bandits came up, and before the unwary sentinel (who was 
no other than the unfortunate Larry, and whose faculty of 
getting into trouble never deserted him) was fairly awake, 
he was bound and spirited away, giving the garrison he was 
set to guard no other warning than the remonstrance which 
Molly’s sharp tongue and heavy hand had made habitual. 

When they reached the secluded spot where the others 
were in waiting. Smith put a pistol to Larry’s head, and said, 

“ Now speak low, and speak to the point, if you ever want 
to speak again. Answer my questions ; I can tell whether 
you are lying or not. At your first lie my men will cut 
your juggler.” And removing the handkerchief, he asked 
rapidly about the number of the garrison and the nature of 
the work. 

Larry’s discretion preserved him to die for his country 
upon a more auspicious occasion, and he answered as well 
as his chattering teeth would permit. Smith was soon con- 
vinced that he had drawn from him all he knew, and then 
said coolly. 


THE ROBIN HOOD OF THE HIGHLANDS. 12 1 


“ Now you are goin^ to desert, yoiT know. If I should 
kill you and leave you here, it might make me trouble. 
You will have to disappear, and make your cursed Whig 
commander believe that you have gone off to parts unknown. 
We shall have to take you with us till we find a good place 
for you to desert in.’’ 

These words had such a mysterious import that Larry re- 
solved to make a desperate effort to escape. But his hands 
were tied behind his back, and the rope they had used on 
the farmer was about his neck, with which they hustled him 
along as they resumed their march northward, tending toward 
the river bank. 

“ Sure an’ ye’re notgoin’ to murther me gasped Larry. 

“Well, I s’ pose that’s about it, in plain English,’’ said 
Smith. 

“ Surely ye’ll not shed innocent blood .?’’ 

“ Your blood isn’t innocent. In the first place, you’re 

a Whig ; in the second place, you were sleeping on 

your post, and your own officers would shoot you for that 
to-morrow ; at least they ought to, and we’ll save them the 
trouble.’’ 

‘ ‘ What are yees goin’ to do wid me ?’ ’ asked Larry 
hoarsely. 

“ Oh, put you quietly out of the way, where you will do 
no harm,’’ said Smith, who rather enjoyed Larry’s terror. 
“ They say dead men tell no tales ; but it’s an infernal lie. 
There are times when I don’t want either dead or live men 
on my trail.’’ 

Larry was now satisfied that if he ever saw Molly again he 
must act promptly, and with almost superhuman strength he 
tugged at the cord that bound his hands. With a thrill of 
hope he was at last able to draw one hand out of its confine- 
ment, and thus relieved them both, but had the presence 
of mind to keep them together as before, so that their free- 


1 22 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


clom was unnoted, and continued on a little further with the 
gang, till they came to where a steep bank shelved down 
into the darkness on one side of the road. Then, with the 
celerity which his desperate emergency prompted, he drew 
his knife, cut the rope around his neck, and bounded over 
the bank, rolling, tumbling, springing, he knew not whither, 
in the mad desire to get away. 

For a moment his captors were so astonished that they did 
not move ; then Smith cried, 

“ Don’t shoot. After him ; cut his throat, and hide his 
body.” 

Two of the most active sprang from their horses, and com- 
menced descending the rocky, precipitous bank. But Larry 
had the start, and his pursuers were not willing to go at his 
breakneck pace. For a wonder, he reached the bottom of 
the ravine sound in limb, and darted off in the darkness 
among the concealing copse-wood, soon becoming utterly 
lost to view. The baffled brigands gave up the chase, and 
returned, grumbling and swearing, to their horses. Nor 
were their ruffled tempers soothed by the volley of curses 
received from their leader. 

“ I could have shot him if you hadn’t stopped me,” said 
Cole. 

“ Yes, and brought the garrison clattering after us. I 
had other work on hand before I crossed the mountains, and 
I won’t be balked either; so come.” And away like a 
thundergust they sped to work destruction elsewhere. 

In an incredibly short space of time, Larry regained his 
post, and found, to his joy, that the time for the relief of 
guard had not come. Dodging around in shadow, he 
reached his quarters, and awakened Molly as roughly as he 
had imagined she was rousing him when the Tory pinioned 
him to the tree. 

“ Bloody murther !” spluttered Molly. 


THE ROBIN HOOD OF THE HIGHLANDS. 123 


“ Hist, or I’ll throttle ye. It’s me — Larry. If ye don’t 
want to see me shot in the mornin’, git me a musket in a 
wink.” 

“ Faix, an’ I’ll shoot ye meself, if ye don’t be quiet. 
Ye’ve been drinkin’.” 

“ Now, Molly, me darlint, I’ll tell ye all in the mornin’ ; 
but if ye don’t stale out an’ git me a musket, I’m the same 
as a dead man. They won’t mind yees if ye is seen, but if 
they cotch me, it’ s all up. Don’ t ye see ? T m off me post. 
I’ve been robbed and murthered, an’ to-morry I’ll be shot. 
Yees can stale to the arniory an’ git me one in a jiffy. Go 
quick, or I’ll haunt ye all yer days.” 

This dire threat roused Molly to action, and she now be- 
gan to realize, from Larry’s desperate earnestness, that the 
emergency was pressing. Her husband threw a gray blanket 
around her, and with bare feet and noiseless tread, she slip- 
ped to a forge near by, where arms were repaired, and soon 
returned, saying, 

“ There, now, look to yerself, fori don’t want to be both- 
ered wid ye after ye’re dead.” A moment later Larry was 
back to his post, where he stood, straight as a ramrod, often 
rubbing his eyes, to make sure it was not all a dream. But 
his torn clothes, aching wrists, and bruised limbs proved 
the reality of his strange experience, and he was only too 
glad that the loose discipline of the incipient fort had enabled 
him to gain his beat without detection. When, a little later, 
the officer of the guard came around with his squad, Larry 
challenged him with great promptness, and went rejoicing 
to his quarters with an encomium on his vigilance. But 
his tale was so strange that Molly would not believe it, and 
her only comment was, 

” I thought ye’d be mare-ridden afther the supper ye ate. 
Ye’d better find that firelock in the mornin’.” 

But when, in the morning, she saw his wrists and bruises, 


124 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 


and the gaps in his clothes which she must mend, she con- 
soled him by saying, 

“ Och, ye spalpeen ! it was the divil himself as had ye ; 
better mend yer ways.’^ 

Larry shook his head, but resolved that he would put 
chestnut burrs in his shoes before he slept on his post again. 

Smith and his followers soon reached the vicinity of the 
lonely log cabin back of West Point, where Vera was keep- 
ing her patient watch. As they struck up the glen leading 
to the dwelling, Cole sidled up to his leader, and said, 

“ Claud, you’re not goin’ to Brown’s ?” 

“Yes, I am. Why not.?” 

“Well,” continued the superstitious robber, “ they say 
everything is not right there, and that the old black witch as 
lives with them can do with a feller just what she pleases. 
I’m not afraid of flesh and blood, but our weapons ain’t o’ 
much account agin the devil.” 

“I’m not afraid of man or devil,” said Smith surlily. 
“ They say there’s a lot of hard money hid in that cabin, 
and I’m not goin’ home empty-handed, after such a ride as 
we’ve had to-night.” 

Cole’s words, however, oppressed the mind of the leader, 
for superstition is rarely divorced from ignorance and crime. 
He also saw that Cole’s fear was shared by the rest of the 
gang ; so he caused them to halt, and passed around the 
flask of whisky again. Under this stimulus they advanced, 
and were glad to hear sounds that were earthly, as the great 
dogs bounded fiercely toward them. Two shots in quick 
succession dispatched them, and after their dying whine 
ceased, all was still — it seemed to them strangely and un- 
naturally still. They supposed the owner of the cabin would 
appear, but there was not a sound. 

Smith took another pull at the flask, and then approached 
the door, but the same oppressive silence continued ; a dread 




A Panic Seized upon the Robber. 




THE ROBIN HOOD OF THE HIGHLANDS, 125 

and restraint that he could not understand chilled his heart, 
and the fire that flickered on the hearth filled the cabin, as 
seen through the windows, with fitful and fantastic shadows. 

“ Come away, Claud,” muttered his companions ; “this 
is no place for us.” 

But the hardihood of the man prevailed. Taking another 
fiery draught, he cocked his pistol, and went straight to the 
door and knocked. 

There was no response. 

He lifted the latch, and it yielded to him. Stepping 
within, he stood transfixed. Gleaming out upon him from 
where she crouched by the fireplace was the weird, unearthly 
visage of old Gula, whose fixed gaze of terror was to him a 
Gorgon stare. More awful to the guilty soul was the white, 
dead face turned toward him from the bed. Vera knelt by 
her mother with clasped hands and eyes turned heavenward, 
and her beauty, pallor, and attitude gave her a spiritual 
rather than an earthly aspect. But not a sound broke the 
silence that had now become awful to the man of blood, 
and it seerned to him that he could not break the spell him- 
self. A jet of flame leaped up suddenly from the hearth, 
and the strange inmates of the cabin seemed to dilate as if 
in supernatural light. A panic seized upon the robber. He 
turned upon his heel, and, without a word, sprang upon his 
horse and galloped away with his trembling companions ; 
not did they draw rein till far up among the mountains. 
Speaking of it afterward. Smith said it seemed to him as if a 
great hand took him by the shoulder and thrust him 
out. 

At the first fierce clamor of the dogs, Vera felt a sudden 
shock of terror, which the firing increased ; but her training 
and her own instincts led her to lift her heart at once to God. 
Then came the impulse to trust Him only, and stepping to 
the door, she unbarred it, and then knelt by her mother’s 


126 


Ar£AA’ TO NATURE'S llEART. 


side, in which attitude she remained until the clatter of the 
flying bandits died away. When she arose, she said, 

“ ‘ Fear not,’ Gula, ‘ for they that be with us are more 
than they that be with them.’ If God should open our eyes 
as he did the eyes of the young servant of Elisha, we, too, 
would see that ‘ the mountain is full of horses and chariots 
of fire round about’ us.” 

“ Your God seems mighty po’ful,” said the negress, with 
awe in tone and manner, “ but Gula’ s too ole to be changin’ 
Gods at her time o’ life. De captain ob de floatin’ misery 
dat brought me from my home, and de mas’r dat used to 
whip my ole dead body, sot great store by your God, and 
was alius axin’ him to dam folks, whatever dat was ; and 
I’se afeaid if I should pray to him he’d take me to whare 
old mas’r is, and I doesn’t want to see him no mo’. I 
wants to go back to my ole home. ’ ’ 

Vera sighed deeply, for Gula’s harsh experience, which 
she could not fail to associate with the Divine name that she 
heard so often, raised perplexing questions. But after a lit- 
tle the young girl said thoughtfully, 

“ I do not think your old master will be where mother is. 
God does not mix winter and summer together. No more 
will he join the cruel and brutal with the loving and gentle. 
Suppose my God should take you to where mother is ?” 

Old Gula shook her head, saying, “Ed like po’ful well 
to see old missus, an’ p’raps dey’d let me visit her. But I 
doesn’t want to take no risks ob meetin’ ole mas’r agin, and 
I does want to see my ole home. Oh ! dat I might go dis 
minute.” 

With such quaint, unearthly talk the Christian maiden, 
who was scarcely more than a child, and the pagan slave be- 
guiled the heavy hours. In their beliefs, as in their appear- 
ance, there was seemingly wide diversity ; but in the only 
kinship that is abiding— that of love— and in God’s eyes they 


THE ROBIN HOOD OF THE HIGHLANDS, l2^ 


were not so far apart as many who bow together at his altar. 
The fathomless chasm of evil did not divide them, and per- 
haps at last old Gula would find her tropical home so blended 
with Vera’s paradise as to be content. 

Note to Preceding Chapter. — Claudius Smith is not a ficti- 
tious character, but was once the terror of the region adjacent to 
the Highlands of the Huason. The robbery of the farmer actually 
took place as described, and is only antedated little more than a 
year. When Smith was hung at Goshen, N. Y., January 22d, 1779, 
this farmer asked Smith where valuable papers he had stolen were. 

“ Meet me in the next world and I will tell you,” was the grim 
reply. 

His tall and splendid form, arrayed in rich broadcloth with silver 
buttons, combined with his fearless and almost manly bearing, made 
him an imposing figure on the scaffold ; and even in the hour of 
death he inspired something like dread and respect in the vast throng 
that witnessed his exit. His deep depravity, or, perhaps, more cor- 
rectly speaking, his lack of a moral nature, was shown at the last 
moment by a characteristic act. Just before he was hung he 
“ kicked off his shoes,” with the brutal remark, 

“ Mother often said I would die like a trooper’s horse with my 
shoes on ; but I will make her a liar.” 


128 


JVEA/i TO NATURE'S HEART. 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD. 

HE winter had passed rather drearily and unsatisfac* 



X torily to Saville. The garrison at Constitution Island 
was small, and the works on the fortifications advanced 
slowly. Although his education as an engineer had been 
superficial, he was satisfied that Colonel Roman’s draughts 
and lines of defense were very defective, and that time and 
money were spent to little purpose. Moreover, his visits to 
the western shore, and his excursions after game, had shown 
him that the island was overlooked and commanded by more 
advantageous points. But his frank statements to this effect 
had not won him favor with his superior officers, who were 
ignorant and incompetent, and had more than humanity’s 
average dislike for criticism. Moreover, Saville was so often 
faulty in the details of his profession as to be frequently 
open to censure himself, and his prospects of promotion were 
not very flattering. He would have much preferred active 
service in the presence of the enemy ; but such was the 
dearth of engineers that he was kept at labors much too 
peaceful for his fiery spirit. 

He had, besides, another cause for dissatisfaction and un- 
easiness, which also increased his unpopularity in certain 
quarters. It was impossible for one of his frank and out- 
spoken nature to nurse his unbelief in silence. He even 
felt it a privilege and a duty to advocate the new ideas ac- 
quired abroad, and soon had quite a following of young 


THE MO THEE STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD, 129 


and unstable men, to whom he often discoursed in his glow- 
ing style on what he termed “ the absurd and antiquated be- 
liefs and systems of the past, originated by shrewd old 
schemers who constructed and maintained them for their 
own advantage. They had been imposed upon men in 
times of general ignorance,’’ he said ; “ but the age had 
come when men would use their reason, and break away 
from the tyranny of custom and the trammels of superstition. 
Man should be true to himself, and obey the laws which he 
found existing in his own nature, instead of trembling before 
an imaginary God seated on a throne which no one had 
ever seen. The idea of men in the eighteenth century bow- 
ing down to an ancient Hebrew divinity ! Why not also 
before Isis, Jupiter, and Odin.?” But the practical results 
of his bold, brilliant theorizing perplexed and troubled him. 
So far as his sophistries found acceptance, and he succeeded 
in removing from his listeners the idea of a personal God to 
whom they were accountable, they became reckless, vicious, 
and generally demoralized. It was said, and with seeming 
good reason, that Saville had a very bad influence over his 
associates. It was not, however, the man himself, but his 
pernicious opinions, that did the mischief. Those whose 
minds he poisoned were coarser-grained than he, and had 
not his resources of culture, nor his repugnance to the gross 
vices of the camp. It was in vain that he remonstrated with 
them. His skeptical words had broken down the barriers of 
a wholesome fear, which, with many, serves for a time in the 
place of principle ; and the dark tides of evil flowed in un- 
restrained. Thus he unwittingly made them uncongenial 
companions for himself ; and, as spring advanced, and his 
life grew lonely and isolated as he recalled his wife’s unnat- 
ural course toward him ; as he remembered that his mother 
was grieving over his action as a great misfortune ; as he .saw 
those who had in a measure accepted his iconoclastic and 


130 


N£A/^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


skeptical views sinking far below the level of true manhood, 
his spirit at times grew bitter and resentful, and he would 
say, 

“ Everything I touch blackens, and even to my mother I 
am only a source of sorrow and anxiety. What is the evil 
fatality of my life ?’ ’ 

But his nature was too sanguine and healthful for any 
continued morbid brooding, and he would soon throw off 
the burden of unhappy thoughts, and hope for better things. 

Vera’s quest of the surgeon had renewed his interest in 
one whose character seemed so unique that he felt quite a 
strong desire to explore further ; for he had a Frenchman’s 
love of companionship, providing it was tolerably congenial. 

The difficulty of making the acquaintance of the family 
on the opposite side of the river now acted only as an in- 
centive, Perhaps the man was a political refugee, and what- 
ever was the cause of his seclusion he and his certainly did 
not belong to the class of vulgar criminals. Possibly, if he 
crossed the river with his flute, and, within hearing of the 
cabin, played the air which he and Vera had come to asso- 
ciate with each other, the air to which he had first heard her 
sing the exquisite words, 

“ I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,” 

he might lure the young girl to an interview. But, recall- 
ing his experience with the fierce dogs, and their equally 
dangerous master, he also took his arms. 

Remembering that the cabin was at the base of a rocky 
height, he concluded that, by scaling this, he might over- 
look the habitation unobserved. The lovely spring day was 
declining when he reached the summit of the hill, where 
now are the ruins of Fort Putnam, and found that he could 
there, among the sheltering evergreens, securely carry forward 
his reconnoissance. With his glass he was able to subject 


THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD. 13 1 


everything to the closest scrutiny ; but there was no one in 
sight, and even the great dogs were not visible. At first, he 
hoped that the man had gone away and taken them with 
him, and he was about to tune his flute to the musical signal 
which he was in hopes the daughter would answer, when 
his attention was caught by an ominous heap of newly turned 
earth under a wide-spreading elm not very distant from the 
house. Its meaning was soon shown, for the door of the 
cottage opened, and there issued forth the strangest funeral 
procession that he had ever seen. It consisted only of 
three : the husband, who carried upon his shoulder the 
coffin containing the light and wasted form of his wife ; 
Vera, and old Gula. Vera carried a large cross of flowers, 
composed of the white blossoms of the dog- wood and blood- 
root, while the negress followed with two wreaths of ever- 
greens. Slowly, and with bowed heads, they carried the 
wife and mother from one lowly home to the last and most 
lowly of all. Then Gula helped her master to lower the 
coffin into the grave, while Vera stood sobbing by. Nor 
would she permit any one to put the floral cross and wreaths 
of laurel upon the coffin of her mother save herself. Then 
all three stood a few moments in silence at the side of 
the open grave, as they might upon the shores of an ocean 
across which one very dear had passed beyond their reach. 
The man, with folded arms and bowed head, stood as mo- 
tionless as a statue, while Vera, after a few moments, opened 
a book, which Saville afterward learned was the Bible, and 
with a voice choked with sobs and interrupted by bitter weep- 
ing, tried to read those sublime and inspired words which 
form part of the burial service in all Christian lands, com- 
mencing, 

“ So also is the resurrection of the dead.^’ 

Saville had become so intensely interested in the scene that 
he had stolen with noiseless tread through the sheltering 


132 


A^EAJ^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


cedars sufficiently near to catch the broken utterances ; and 
although he had heard bishops and eloquent men read those 
words, never before had he been so impressed with them. 
Tears of sympathy started to his own eyes, and he thought, 

“ Poor child, that beautiful fiction is a comfort to her 
now. It’s a pity to disturb some of these superstitions, 
since they soften many of the inevitable ills of our lot to 
those who can believe. ’ ’ 

After closing the Bible, Vera tried to chant the Twenty- 
third Psalm, which her mother had asked for just before her 
death ; but after a few broken, plaintive strains, her grief 
overpowered her. The thought of that dear form being 
covered with the cold, black earth was too terrible to be 
borne, nor would she remain as a witness, and so she fled 
to her own little retreat in the side of the hill back of the 
cabin. Old Gula soon tottered alter, moaning and wring- 
ing her hands in her honest grief. 

At last the man started out of his stony paralysis, and seiz- 
ing the spade, worked with superhuman energy till the grave 
was filled and mounded. Then going to the house, he took 
his rifle and started up the glen. He was soon lost to view, 
and the place became as silent and apparently as deserted as 
when Saville first saw it. 

He wondered what had become of the dogs. Venturing 
down into the valley, a little distance below he found their 
dead bodies. Here was another mystery. He waited for a 
time, hoping that Vera would come to the grave, for she 
seemed so alone in her sorrow that he longed to assure her 
even of a stranger’s sympathy. He had been deeply touched 
by the scene he had witnessed, and his curiosity had devel- 
oped into the most kindly interest. He felt that he could 
not go away until he had told her that if he could ever be 
of help to her she must come to him again. At first, he 
thought he would go directly to the door and ask to see her ; 


THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS TIER CHILD. 133 


but, acting upon another impulse, he sat down by the grave, 
and commenced playing a beautiful dirge that he had 
learned abroad. 

He was soon rewarded by seeing the door open, and the 
maiden appear, looking wonderingly up, as if she thought 
the music came from the air. But, on recognizing him, 
she was much startled. Still she did not turn away, nor did 
Saville cease his music, but only sought to give it a more 
plaintive and tender character. After a moment’s debate 
with herself, Vera approached with hesitating steps, like a 
timid fawn. Then Saville arose, and taking off his hat, 
awaited her coming. 

“ Will you forgive a stranger for intruding on your sorrow, 
when his only motive is sympathy?” he asked gently. 

Vera essayed to speak, but found no words. 

“ I hope you are not sorry I came. I would not force 
my company upon you now.” 

” No — oh, no. 1 am not sorry. I think God sent you. 
I was so lonely, it seemed as if my heart was breaking. 
Pardon me, I have such a pain here (pressing her hand upon 
her side) that I can hardly speak.” 

“ I feel very deeply for you,” said Saville soothingly ; and 
he took her hand and gave her a seat on a rock beside the 
grave. “Is there anything I can do to comfort you ? 
Though a stranger, you surely can trust me in this sacred 
place. I do not think there is a wretch in the world who 
could harbor an injurious thought against you by your 
mother’s grave.” 

“lam sure you could not,” said Vera gratefully ; “ and 
you are less a stranger to me than any one else in all the 
world. 

“ Can it be true that you have no friends — no acquaint- 
ances — beyond the inmates of the cottage there ?” 

“ It is true : while mother lived she was everything to me, 


134 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 

and when I saw her placed in the ground, the world turned 
black. If she could only have taken me with her !” 

“ But that would leave the world ‘ black' for some one 
else," said Saville gently. “ That might be more than your 
father could bear." 

" I know it’s selfish and wrong for one to feel so ; espe- 
cially when mother is, at last, well and happy ; though just 
how she can be when I am so unhappy is hard to under 
stand." 

“ It is, indeed, poor child." 

“ It will seem right by and by," Vera continued, more 
calmly and patiently. “ ‘ What I do thou knowest not now, 
but thou shalt know hereafter.’ Already I see He will not 
make the burden heavier than I can bear, for He sent you 
here when it seemed I could not endure my lonely feelings 
any longer." 

Saville was deeply stirred, for he was by nature very sym- 
pathetic and emotional. But he must have been unnaturally 
callous, could he have looked unmoved upon Vera as she 
turned to him in her terrible isolation and sorrow. Little 
other claim had she upon him save that of kindred human- 
ity ; and yet it seemed to her that he was the only one that 
could be sent out of the strange unfamiliar world, whose 
words and presence would not be a burden. 

To Saville, led as he was ever prone to be, by his gener- 
osity and imagination, it appeared that this orphan, in her 
loneliness and bereavement, had the most sacred claims 
upon him. Because she was so friendless and defenseless, 
his chivalric spirit acknowledged her right to seek help from 
him. 

When men are devoid of faith in a personal God who is 
intelligently shaping the destiny of his creatures, and con- 
trolling events, they are prone to believe in such vague ab- 
stractions as fate, destiny, and fortune. That he should 


THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD. 135 

have met Vera as he had in the first instance, and then have 
received her at the island, when she came in the vain hope 
of finding help for her mother ; that the young girl should 
take his proffered sympathy as if famishing for human fel- 
lowship, and even in her strong superstition feel that her 
God had sent him, — all together combined to kindle his 
quick fancy, and impressed him with the feeling that in this 
case humanity asserted one of the strongest claims that 
would ever rest upon him. At the same time, he was not 
conscious of the degree in which Vera’s beauty, youth, and 
uniqueness of character emphasized this claim. 

With all his faults, he had no small vanity to mislead 
him, and was sufficiently pure and noble to understand 
Vera’s innocent welcome and frank expression of relief that 
he had come. He regarded her feeling as an intense desire 
to escape from the awful solitude of sorrow. Sympathy from 
one’s own kind is one of the deepest and most instinctive 
wants of the heart ; and there are times when it must be 
had or the consequences are disastrous. No nature that is 
human is self-sufficient in every emergency of life ; for even 
the pure and perfect human nature of our Lord, though al- 
lied with Divinity, pleaded with the drowsy disciples, 

Watch with me.” This request was not a mere form, 
nor a test of their loyalty, but the inevitable appeal for sup- 
port which ever comes from suffering. The larger and more 
perfect the nature, the more deeply is this want felt. But, 
while human kindness and consideration can do much to 
assuage this eager hunger of the heart, it cannot satisfy. 
The experience of Gethsemane is well-nigh universal, and 
there come to all, hours of darkness when earthly friendship 
is as unavailable as that of the men who slept through 
their Master’s grief when he was but a “ stone’s cast” 
away. 

How true this was in Vera’s experience will be seen here» 


136 


NEA/^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


after ; but now she saw that the stranger, toward whom her 
thoughts had so often turned, was strangely moved in her 
behalf, and it greatly comforted her. She felt almost sure 
that God had serlt him, and that he would become such a 
friend as her mother desired her to gain, — one that would 
enable her to make further acquaintance with her fellow 
creatures, and escape from her dangerous isolation. The 
thought of anything like love, which might end in an alli- 
ance with this young man had never entered her mind. She 
did not know what love was, save that love which, in its 
tranquil phases had swayed her since childhood. 

As has been said, Saville was large-minded enough to un- 
derstand that she welcomed him as a captive might ; and 
that he, in some degree, satisfied a natural craving for sym- 
pathy and companionship. He also saw that she was as guile- 
less and ignorant of the world, as she was friendless and in 
need of guardianship ; and every generous trait in his nature 
responded to her unconscious appeal. He took her hand, 
and said, 

“ You are, indeed, very much alone in the world. I 
never knew any one quite so friendless, who was as good as 
you are.’" 

“ You are almost the only one I have ever spoken to, save 
mother, father, and old Gula,” replied Vera, looking into 
his face as frankly and gratefully as a little child. 

“Would you like to speak to me often ? Would you 
like to have me as a friend to whom you could tell your 
troubles, and from whom you could ask help and advice 
without any fear .? I am willing to be a brother to you as 
nearly as I can.” 

Vera’s lovely face was fairly illumined with gratitude ; 
but, without removing her frank and childlike gaze, before 
which a bad and designing man would have shrunk abashed, 
she said, earnestly, 


THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD, 137 

“ And can you offer so much to one who has so little 
claim upon you ?” 

“ Who could have a stronger claim ? Your need, your 
loneliness and sorrow, your youth, beauty, and ignorance 
of the world and its dangers, would awaken a chivalrous 
spirit in the basest of men ; and such, believe me, I am 
not, with all my faults. Let me, then, be a friend and 
brother, till you can find better and more helpful friends." 

“ And do you think that I could use you only as a step- 
ping-stone on which to cross a rough place?" said Vera, a 
little reproachfully. " Ingratitude is a ‘ marble-hearted 
fiend.’ No friend can ever take the place of one who has 
been kind to me at this time. But, humble and friendless 
as I am, there are conditions of which I must speak first. I 
am, indeed, alone. There is no one to guide or counsel 
me, and I must follow mother’s teachings and words, as far 
as I can remember them. She told me that it I ever made 
friends, the first thing I must try to be sure of was their 
truthfulness ; for she said no good qualities could take the 
place of truth, and that, if this were lacking, all else would 
fail. I feel sure that you are true and honorable. My heart 
tells me that you are. You would not deceive me anywhere, 
much less here," with a little, eloquent gesture toward the 
spot where her mother was sleeping. " Will you promise 
me that your friendship will ever tend to help me live and 
feel as that dear mother would wish ? I believe God will 
permit her to be near me, and I wish her to see no change, 
no forgetfulness of her, or any of her words. I would rather 
live alone all my life in these mountains, and never see any 
one, than grieve her. My only request is, that you will help 
me to remain true to her teachings, and to live in a way that 
I know will be pleasing to her." 

Siville hesitated a moment, for Vera was asking more than 
she could understand. According to his opinions the best 


138 NEAJ^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 

service he could render this young girl was to enlighten her 
mind, and break the chains of superstition. And yet his 
theory in this case failed signally, for that superstition was 
now her only comfort —the rock that sustained her above 
the dark waves of sorrow. He might better stab the girl 
looking up wistfully at him, than hint that her mother was 
not living and that there was no such place as heaven. 
Then the thought flashed into his mind : could his philos- 
ophy make her more true, innocent, and lovely in character, 
than had those mother s teachings, to which she was so 
pathetically seeking to be loyal ? His experience as its 
teacher had not been encouraging ; and had he not better 
leave the spells of early years unbroken, in this instance ? 
The moment's reflection convinced him that any other 
course would be most cruel, and perhaps disastrous ; and 
therefore he said solemnly, 

“ I promise what you ask ; and when I see what your 
mother’s teaching and example have made you, I feel assured 
that I am acting right." 

Thus again Savillegavea pledge which would in the future 
confront him, and rise like a wall across his path. 

But Vera heaved a great sigh of relief, and said, “ I am 
content. I now have done just as mother would wish," 
and she looked as fondly at the grave as if it were an intel- 
ligent face. 

For a little while Saville watched her wonderingly in si- 
lence, and then asked abruptly, 

“ You have never told me your name." 

“ Vera — Vera Brown." 

“ Vera ! it’s a most appropriate name." 

“ It was appropriate to mother, and it was given to me by 
father, because he said she had been so true to him. Oh I 
how I wish you had come sooner," she added, with a sud- 
den rush of tears. 


THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD. 139 

“ Why do you wish I had come sooner V* 

“ Mother wished to see you.” 

Indeed ! did she know anything about me ?” 

“ She knew all that I did. I never hid a thought from 
her, and never shall, for I think God will let her come back 
to me and be my guardian spirit. Can you think I did not 
tell her of your great kindness when I went for the surgeon ? 
She wanted to see you and thank you,” and Vera's tears 
fell fast. 

“ Why did you not come for me ?” 

“ I did venture once to the shore, but there was a feeling 
which I cannot explain that made it impossible forme to ask 
you to come, though 1 so much wished you would,” said 
Vera, unconsciously revealing the maidenly reserve, which, 
though not understood, controlled her. “ I was in hopes 
you might come again of your own accord.” 

“ I ought to have done so ; and yet I feared I might be 
an intruder.” 

“You have no reason to blame yourself, after the treat- 
ment you received from father and myself. I had no cause 
to expect you ; I only hoped. ’ ' 

“lam still to blame,” said Saville ; “for while your 
voice forbade me to come, I thought I saw in your eyes the 
need of sympathy and help.” 

“You saw what was true, indeed.” 

“ Besides, you spoke your father’s will, and not your own 
wish.” 

An expression of pain flitted across the girl’s face. For a 
moment she sat still in deep embarrassment, trying to think 
how she should explain her father’s action, past and pros- 
pective ; but she knew so little herself, and the whole sub- 
ject was so mysterious and sad, that she was at a loss to find 
words. 

Her truth, however, and her simplicity served her better 


140 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART 


than skill or concealment ; for at last she turned a little 
abruptly to Saville, and with eyes washed clear by many tears 
said, 

“ My father met with a misfortune in England. What it 
was I do not know ; neither he nor mother ever told me. 
But he had to leave his home ; so he brought mother here, 
and here I was born, and here we have lived ever since : 
now you know all that I do. Mother thought that father’s 
troubles and his long seclusion from the world had a bad 
influence on his mind, and once told me that he had greatly 
changed from his former self. But, like Cordelia, ‘ I love 
him according to my bond,’ and with her could cry, 

‘ O my father ! Restoration, hang 
Thy medicine on my lips ; and let my kiss 
Repair those violent harms.’ 

But from you I can ask only forbearance ; the same generous 
courtesy that you showed when you said to me, ‘ Charity 
thinketh no evil.’ ” 

This statement, so simple, guileless, and yet enriched by 
an apt allusion to one whose character she seemed to pos- 
sess, greatly pleased Saville. Whatever had been the act 
that clouded the father’s life, not even the shadow of its 
knowledge rested upon the mind of the child. 

“ Your thoughts are as crystal as yonder spring,” he 
said ; “ and yet you are enshrouded in mystery. How 
came you so conversant with the two great books of the 
world ?” 

“ There is no mystery about that ; they are the only books 
we have. I learned to read in them, and they have been my 
companions ever since. What I should have done without 
them, often, I scarcely know.” 

“ Which of the two do you like the better 

“ Oh ! the Bible, of course. But a year ago I found 


THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD. 14 1 

more pleasure in the plays, and I never could get weary of 
them ; but when mother began to fail, and my heart to 
sink with dread, the plays would not answer. I wanted 
something like the kind voice of a living being speaking to 
me, and so I have read the Bible altogether of late.’’ 

“ And does the Bible seem like a living voice speaking to 
>ou.?” 

“ Why, surely ; the Bible is God’s Word. Sometimes I 
hear mother’s favorite text so plainly — ‘ Let not your heart 
be troubled’ — that I look around, half expecting to see 
some one.” 

Saville sighed, as he thought, “ What a pity her belief is 
not true !” but he said, changing the subject, 

“ Will you let me ask about another mystery ? How does 
it happen that your two great dogs lie dead yonder 

‘‘ There is a mystery concerning those two humble friends, 
which perhaps you can help us solve. When I found them 
dead this morning, I felt very badly. It seemed as if death 
still hovered around us ; and yet God preserved us so won- 
derfully from greater harm, that we have only reason to be 
grateful.” Then she told him of the night alarm, and the 
intrusion of the robber within the cabin. “ But after he 
entered,” continued Vera, “ he did not speak, and scarcely 
moved until he turned and abruptly left the room ; and then, 
judging from the sound of their horses’ feet, they went as if 
flying for their lives. I unbarred and unbolted the door, so 
that we might be solely in God’s hands ; and He protected 
us as He did the prophet, when cast into the lion’s den.” 

“ This is very strange,” mused Saville frowningly. 

“ Do you think they were soldiers.? Their coming has 
troubled father terribly.” 

“ You say they came up the valley from the south, and 
continued northward.” 

‘‘Yes.” 


142 


NEAR TO NAT [/RE’S HEART. 


“ I scarcely think they were any of our men. It is more 
probable that they belong to a class of dangerous wretches 
that are becoming very troublesome. They pretend to be 
Tories or Royalists, but usually plunder either party as they 
get a chance. ’ ' 

Oh ! thank God, who kept us from the evil.'' 

“ I do indeed shudder to think of your situation last 
night,” said Saville, growing pale at the thought of the 
young girl’s peril. But, to quote from one of your fa- 
vorite books, ‘ Conscience makes cowards of us all.' These 
guilty rascals are very superstitious, and no doubt your 
mother’s dead face was more protection than an armed man. 
But it troubles me greatly to think of you as so isolated and 
unshielded.” 

“ I shall continue to trust in God,” said Vera calmly. 

“ That is right ; keep up your faith and courage,” re- 
plied Saville heartily ; adding mentally, ” Poor child ! never 
was delusion more harmless and useful than in your case.” 

The twilight was now deepening fast ; still it had not grown 
so dark but that Vera’s father could be plainly seen advanc- 
ing toward them. When he saw Saville, he stopped abrupt- 
ly, and took his rifle down from his shoulder, with the in- 
stinctive action of one who suddenly thinks himself in the 
presence of danger. But Vera rose promptly, and taking 
her companion’s hand, led him forward, saying, 

“ Father, this is Mr. Saville, who was very kind to me 
when I went for the surgeon.” 

The man’s recognition was so cold and distant as to be 
j forbidding, whereupon Vera continued, in a tone whose 
firmness and decision excited Saville’ s surprise, and proved 
that she had unusual force of character, 

“ You remember mother said that if he came again you 
must treat him with kindness and courtesy ; and from heaice- 
forth mother’s will must be your law and mine.” 


THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD. 143 


This reference to his dead wife disarmed the man at 
once. The known wishes of a loved one who has died are 
often far more potent than were strong entreaties when urged 
face to face ; and the husband’s mind was not so warped 
but that he was suffering from the remorseful impression that 
he had not been as considerate of his wife as both duty and 
his own affection required, and he was in a mood to make 
amends. It was only his strongly rooted habit of shunning 
and repelling strangers that now stood between him and this 
the first visitor who had broken in upon his solitude for so 
many long years. But Vera was gladdened by seeing him 
master this, though evidently by a great effort, and give his 
hand to Saville in something like a welcome. 

“ The wishes of the dead are indeed sacred,” he said ; 
“ and I hope that neither myself nor my daughter will ever 
have cause to regret our acquaintance.” 

“ I pledge you the word of a gentleman, you shall not,” 
replied Saville heartily ; and to the extent of my power 
as an officer I will extend you protection while I am in this 
locality. ” 

“ I hope you will not go away,” said Vera in a low tone ; 
but there was more entreaty in her wistful look than in her 
words. 

“ The chief element in a soldier’s life is uncertainty. I 
must obey orders, and there is prospect of a very active cam- 
paign. But wherever I am, I shall not forget you, nor cease 
to use what influence I possess in your behalf.” 

Mr. Brown now went so far as to ask Saville into the cabin, 
where Gula had prepared as good a supper as her slender 
materials permitted. Saville’ s high breeding and familiarity 
with the world enabled him to talk with ease and grace, 
while his tact and genuine sympathy for the afflicted house- 
hold made his words like oil that calmed the troubled waters 
in rhe souls of each of his listeners ; for, beyond a few eager 


144 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


questions on the part of Mr. Brown in regard to the progress 
of the war, both father and daughter were well content to 
listen rather than speak, when their hearts were so full of 
sorrow, and their lips sealed by so much mystery. Gleams 
of hope and almost exultation came into the eyes of the fear- 
haunted man, as Saville told him of the forced and hasty 
evacuation of Boston, on the part of the British troops, of 
which event vague rumors only had reached the mountain 
cabin. 

“ But, after all,'" he asked, “ can the American Colonies 
make any prolonged resistance to the enormous power of 
England ?’ ’ 

“ Yes,’’ cried Saville enthusiastically ; “ we are on the 
eve of complete and final independence, and on this new 
continent will be built up a system of life and government 
which will revolutionize the world.” 

The haggard face of his host lighted up as he caught 
something of the young man’s spirit ; but soon the shadow 
fell across it again, and he shook his head, saying, 

“ England’s power is almost without limit, and English 
blood is slow to heat and slow to cool. Rest assured it will 
be a long fight.” 

“ Yes, and a hard one,” added Saville thoughtfully ; 

and I am inclined to think that the severest part of the 
struggle will be for the possession of this river. For that 
reason I may be of service to you, as this region becomes 
crowded with troops.” 

While Saville and her father were dwelling on the military 
and political aspects of the situation, Vera’s eyes and thoughts 
often wandered out into the darkness that concealed the little 
mound which was still ever present to her mind, and as the 
last words were uttered, she sighed, 

“ Perhaps mother has escaped from ills too great for her to 
bear. ’ ’ 


THE MOTHER STILL PROTECTS HER CHILD. 145 


“ It shall be my effort that you escape from as many as 
possible also, though not by flight into the unknown,'’ said 
Saville, generously hoping to do more than circumstances 
would probably permit, to show his friendship. “ And now, 
sir," he continued, giving his hand to his host, as he rose 
to depart, “ you cannot fail to trust me after to-day ; for I 
have broken bread with you, and were I a wild Arab, I could 
never entertain an injurious thought against you or yours." 

This cordiality toward his host was somewhat the result 
of policy ; for he saw that if he would be of service to the 
daughter, he must disarm the suspicions of the father. 
Moreover, he had come to the conclusion that the man's 
offense had been of a political nature, for in his words and 
bearing there was no suggestion of vulgar crime. 

To Vera's hand he gave a strong pressure, as he said, “ If 
anything I can say or do will cheer you, I will soon come 
again." 

“You have cheered and comforted me more than I could 
have believed possible," said the maiden gratefully ; and 
she added, with the frankness of a child, “ I hope you will 
come soon and often." 


146 


N£A/i TO NATURE'S HEART. 


CHAPTER XIL 

BEACON FIRES. 

S AVILLE was not slow in keeping his promise, and be- 
came a frequent guest at the little cabin among the 
mountains. His visits, which at first were made largely from 
sympathy, soon became sources of so much pleasure, that 
he was ready to avail himself of any pretext which gave him 
for a few hours the society of one who was more fascinating 
than if schooled in social arts. And yet such was her youth 
and simplicity, and so undisguised was her wonder as he de- 
scribed scenes and life in New York and Europe, that she 
seemed to him only an intelligent child, whom it was a de- 
light to instruct. Congenial companionship was a necessity 
of the young man’s nature ; and in Vera he found so much 
delicacy and refinement, combined with such utter absence 
of conventionality, and entire ignorance of the form and eti- 
quette of the times, that she appeared to confirm his Utopian 
dreams of a liberty so large that the impulses of nature would 
become the only laws. But nature, to Savilleand Vera, had 
very different meanings. To the one it was an existing 
order of things that he could not account for, but in which 
man was supreme, and a law unto himself. To the other 
it was the creation and dwelling-place of a Divine, all-pow- 
erful Being, who was, at the same time, her Father and fiiend. 
In the beauty and purity of Vera’s character Saville saw the 
effects of this belief, but he erred greatly in supposing all to 
be the result of earthly causes. The development of the 


BEACON FIRES. 


147 


soul, under the influence of a Divine, ever-present Spirit, 
was a truth concerning w’hich he had little knowledge and 
no faith. 

Of his own great trouble and disappointment he never 
spoke to any one. His wife’s conduct was more than a 
sorrow, and had become rather a bitter shame and disgrace, 
to which his proud spirit could not endure the slightest al- 
lusion. Not even to his mother had he mentioned her name 
since the evening she crossed his threshold for the last time. 
It was his wish to forget her existence ; for his blood tingled 
as he remembered how easily she had duped him, and how 
blindly and stupidly he had wrecked his happiness. While, 
therefore, he spoke frankly to Vera of his mother, and of 
his life abroad and in New York, he maintained the habit 
of silence, in regard to his wife, which was already fastened 
upon him. 

Vera had disarmed at once the bitter and misanthropic 
thoughts, which a man with his experience is prone to cherish 
toward the entire sex. No mountain stream could be more 
transparent than this child of nature, who had learned none 
of art’s disguises. When, from instinct, she manifested 
maidenly reserve, the cause was as apparent as the effect. 
Her perfect guilelessness deepened the impression, that Sa- 
ville had formed from the first, that she was but a child ; and 
his warm and growing affection was that of a brother for a 
younger sister, who accepts wonderingly and trustingly his 
superiority in all things. And yet there was withal a certain 
womanly dignity which often puzzled Saville, and made it 
impossible for him to indulge in the innocent caresses which 
are natural between brother and sister. 

As for the young girl, she no more thought of analyzing 
her feeling toward her new found friend than would the 
mind of a famished man dwell upon the chemical constituents 
of the food that was giving him a new lease of life. She 


148 


ATEA/^ to NATURE'S HEART, 


did indeed love Saville, and she knew it ; but her strong 
and deepening regard caused no more unrest than had the 
tender yet tranquil affections which had hitherto governed 
her. She loved him like a sister, and yet with more inten- 
sity than that relation usually awakens. She loved him from 
a deep and abiding sense of gratitude. He had been a 
friend in the sorest extremity of her life, and had come as a 
deliverer when her heart was breaking in her terrible anguish 
and loneliness. He had rescued her from the agony which 
pierced like a mortal thrust, as she realized that her mother 
was buried from her sight ; and he had gently and tenderly 
sought to comfort and divert her thoughts ever since. She 
loved him for the same reason that many others of her sex 
would : because he was lovable, and possessed the traits that 
usually win esteem. He was brave ; he was manly in his 
appearance and bearing ; frank and affable in his manner ; 
and more than all, possessed tact, and the power of adapting 
himself to the moods and characters of his associates. He 
could be most fascinating when he chose to exert himself ; 
and both inclination and every generous impulse led him to 
do all in his power to cheer the orphan, who looked to him 
as the sole friend she possessed. But perhaps the tenderest 
element in her affection was the result of her mother’s 
knowledge of him, and her belief that he would prove the 
deliverer who would open a way of escape from an isolation 
which she saw, more and more clearly, would be fraught 
with danger and unhappiness. He had shown kindness to 
her mother, and his gift of the brandy had made the pain 
and weakness of her last days more easily borne. Under 
the circumstances, and with her nature, how could she do 
otherwise than love this stranger knight, who had done so 
much to help and relieve from sore distress } 

And yet there was a depth in her heart in which the name 
of Saville had never sounded. If he had told her that he 


BEACON- FIRES. 


149 


had a true and loving wife in New York, her heart would 
have bounded with joy ; for in that wife she would hope to 
find another friend, of her own sex. She could love her at 
once for his sake. If, in brotherly confidence, he had told 
her of another maiden that he loved, no sister would have 
sympathized more unselfishly and heartily. Saville was 
right ; Vera was still a child. 

With no disposition to monopolize her as a discovery of 
his own, Saville was perfectly ready to introduce other offi- 
cers, whose characters warranted the privilege, at the moun- 
tain cabin. But it was found that its master was so morbidly 
averse, as yet, to any extension of acquaintance, that at 
Vera’s request, he waited until circumstances should break 
down the barriers. Her father’s intense interest in the 
progress of the war grew more and more apparent, and they 
believed that if he could be induced to take an open part in 
the struggle, his mental disorder would pass away. Al- 
though, at times, he seemed almost ready to yield to their 
wishes, his old habit of shrinking caution and demoralizing 
•fear would suddenly resume its sway and disappoint them. 

That this was true was most unfortunate ; for, as the season 
advanced, the w'hole country became pervaded with rumors 
of Tory plots and uprisings. The arrival of British forces 
was daily expected at New York, and it was said that the 
loyalists in the city and along the shores of the Hudson 
were in league to rise, on the advent of large bodies of sup- 
porting English troops. It was a time of general distrust. 
Near neighbors regarded each other with suspicion, and often 
with good cause. Spies were everywhere plying their trade 
of draw'ing from the unwary, secrets that might prove ruin- 
ous. It was a bad time for people who could not or did 
not fully account for themselves ; therefore, the man who, 
among the few that were aware of his existence, went by the 
name of “ Skulkin’ Brown,” could not fail to become an 


150 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 

object of suspicion. There were increasing rumors, which 
had no other foundation than the excited imaginations of 
people who feared danger on every side, and only the fact 
that nothing definite was alleged against him, prevented a 
self-appointed delegation from waiting on him with notice 
to decamp to parts unknown. 

But, in the garrison at Fort Montgomery, rumor began to 
take more tangible and ominous form ; for Molly, sharing 
in all her mother's prejudices against the neighbors who had 
been so secluded and unsocial, began to give out many dark 
hints of what she had surmised rather than seen ; and these 
intimations constantly gained in evil suggestion as they be- 
came the staple gossip around the camp fire. 

The artillery company to which her husband belonged 
had been stationed for a time at Fort Montgomery, but had 
recently been recalled to Fort Constitution ; and Larry was 
glad to get back, for after his experience as sentinel, he re- 
garded the east side of the river as the safer one. He and 
his wife naturally gravitated toward that class among the 
soldiery who were as ignorant and superstitious as them- 
selves ; and loquacious, rash-speaking Molly was not long 
in convincing her associates that old Gulawasa “ hay then," 
and in league with the Evil One, and that Vera was her 
disciple. 

These rumors soon took such shape as to become the 
topic of conversation among the officers, and thus Saville 
heard of them. Alarmed for the safety of Vera, he promptly 
sought their origin, and was not long in tracing them to the 
daughter of the old crone who had disgusted him with her 
envenomed but baseless innuendo on the afternoon when 
he and Larry first saw the nymph of the potato field. At 
first, he sought to reason with Molly, and awaken her sym- 
pathies for the motherless girl. But, on the mention of 
Vera, the coarse-fibered woman only tossed her head, with 


BEACON FIRES. 


151 

something like a leer on her bold, handsome face ; and Sa- 
ville, with indignation, saw that she gave him credit for very 
different motives from those of commiseration and friendly 
regard for the maiden he was seeking to protect. Therefore 
he said, with a sudden anger and sternness, before which 
even the reckless termagant quailed, 

“ Beware how you or your husband whisper another lie 
against those who are under my protection. If you even 
hint anything you cannot prove, I will have you drummed 
out of camp.” 

This, to Molly, was a dire threat, which for a time had 
the desired effect ; for, in her estimation, she could suffer no 
greater misfortune than to be exiled from the camp, where 
she had already become quite a potentate, with numerous 
satellites, the unfortunate Larry being the most subservient 
of all. But her spite rankled anci strengthened, neverthe- 
less. Saville was no favorite of hers ; for her husband had 
reported his significant offer of his old breeches, as well as 
his shoes, at the time she captured his quondam man-of- 
all-work. 

Saville was able, in part, to allay the suspicions of his 
brother officers, by his strenuous assertions that the Whig 
cause had nothing to fear from the inmates of the mountain 
cabin ; but, when asked to give some account of them, he 
could say but little, and so an evil-boding prejudice re- 
mained. 

But the rapid events of a stirring campaign soon banished 
all thought of possible dangers ; and in the approach of 
legions of British troops, the exile suspected of Tory pro- 
clivities was forgotten. 

As the month of June passed, the nearer approached the 
time when all felt that the English men- of war and transports 
must appear upon the coast. Not a day dawned but the 
tidings of their arrival at New York was expected by Colonel 


ATEA/^: TO NATURE'S HEART. 


^52 

James Clinton, who then commanded the forts in the High- 
lands ; and the feverish excitement of expectation hourly 
increased among both officers and men. 

One lovely evening, about the last of June, Saville, after 
his labors upon the fortifications were over, pulled his boat 
across the river to a little cove near the cabin. He had 
suffered much, during the past year, and was finding in the 
society of Vera an increasing power to obliterate the painful 
impressions of the past. He felt, at times, like one con- 
sumed with feverish thirst, and that her conversation, at 
once so childlike and intelligent, so natural and yet tinged 
with the supernatural, was like a cool mountain rill, sweet 
and sparkling, as it issued into the light from its mysterious 
source in the heart of the hills. He often wondered at her 
ability to enchain his thoughts, to awaken questionings in 
regard to matters which he had considered settled, and un- 
consciously to arouse misgivings concerning his doubt and 
unbelief. 

Of one thing, however, he was certain : her influence was 
making him a better and truer man, and bringing a strange 
peace and hopefulness into his soul, that hitherto had been 
full of unrest, and was at times embittered by impotent re- 
sentment at his destiny and again weighed down by deep 
despondency. 

He was soon on the crest of the rocky height above the 
cabin, playing upon his flute the air which had become the 
summons to trysts that, thus far, had not been tainted by 
the thought of evil. A clear voice from the glen below 
echoed back the words, 

“ I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,” 

and, a moment later, Vera gave him her hand in greeting. 

After a little while their conversation flagged. The subtle 
sympathy between them had grown so deep, that they did 


BEACON FIRES. 


153 


not need a constant interchange of words to enjoy each 
other’s society ; and, on this occasion, the exquisite beauty 
and peace of the landscape, as they scanned it from their 
lofty eyrie, so impressed both that they were content to gaze 
in silence. Darkening and lengthening shadows from the 
western mountains stretched far across the river, whose 
glassy surface had gradually passed from the sheen of silver 
to a colder, steely gleam, as it washed its bold shores at their 
feet ; but the heads of “ Sugar Loaf” mountain, and other 
lofty heights, were still crowned with light and robed in 
royal purple. Coming night would soon uncrown them, 
even as death brings darkness and obscurity to those who, 
but a brief time before, shone pre-eminent in power and 
station. 

At last Saville said, 

“ Why is it, Vera, that while here with you, the real 
world, which is full of turmoil and trouble, recedes, and I 
seem near another world which I would gladly enter ; for 
even on its borders I find a strange peace and quiet joy. 
The people I am thrown with in the garrison are coarse, and 
their best idea of life is commonplace and material. Our 
food is plain and even gross, and yet it seems wholly to oc- 
cupy’’ the thoughts of many. How you live I cannot tell, 
unless the fairies feed you. Every day has its harassing 
rumors, and we know that the enemy will strike us soon ; 
and the sooner the better, for the great question of Liberty 
can be decided now only by hard blows. But you cannot 
know what a relief it is to escape from the dust, heat, and 
din of labor on the fortifications, and the oversight of men 
who seem little better than beasts of burden, to a scene like 
this, and to have you hover near me, my dainty Ariel. Are 
you sure you are not a spirit of the air, an emanation of this 
romantic region and hour .? When the cold, dark days come, 
will not you and your rustic bower vanish ? If I come next 


154 


N-EAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


November, and give our musical signal, will not the sighing 
of the chilly wind be my only answer ? Are you really flesh 
and blood V 

“ I might answer with Shylock,’' replied V era, playfully, 
“ ‘ Have I not eyes? Have I not hands, organs, dimen- 
sions, senses, affections, passions V * * 

“ Still, you differ vastly from ordinary mortals. How is 
it that when with you, such a sense of peace, rest, and deep 
content steals into my heart?’" 

“ Another has said, ‘ My peace I give unto you, not as 
the world giveth give I unto you." It is that which you 
feel, I trust.” 

“ Who said that?” 

“ The Prince of Peace — the God who loves us both. Life 
is bringing to me, as well as to yourself, many sad and 
stern realities. I live as you do, but am fed much as the 
ravens are, not knowing where to-morrow’s supply is to 
come from ; only sure that it will come. You know well, 
Mr. Saville, that there is now nothing sportive and fairy-like 
in my life, and yet deep in my heart abides perfect peace.” 

Its reflection was on her face, as he gazed upon it long 
and intently. 

“ May it never be disturbed,” he said fervently. “ 1 
enjoy, while here, but the pale reflection of what you pos- 
sess. But it’s all a mystery, like yourself. What’s that?” 

Far to the southward a faint light illumined the dusk of 
approaching night. While they looked, another and nearer 
flame sprang into the sky, and soon the highest mountain- 
tops all along the river were ablaze. 

“ What do they mean ?” asked Vera, in an awed whisper. 

“ They are beacon fires,” said Saville excitedly; “the 
enemy is at last at hand. Good-by, my little wildflower ; I 
must be at my post instantly. May the hot breath of war 
never wither your bloom. ’ ’ 


BEACON FIRES. 155 

“Good-by," said Vera sadly; “but remember, I shall 
be here in November, just as certainly as in June." 

“ While I live I will seek for you," he called back, as 
he sprang down the rocks and vanished in the darkness. 

Vera watched the ominous glare of the alarm fires for a 
long time, and then sighed, as she descended to her home, 

“ Alas ! war means death to many, and, perhaps, to him, 
my only friend. But not if prayer can shield him." 

She found her father watching the glare, also, in moody 
silence. Taking his arm, she stood quietly by him. How 
much those beacon fires might presage to both 1 

“ They have come at last," he said, with a deep breath. 

“ Yes, father, no doubt the English ships are down the 
river, and now is the time for you to do as mother said — 
join Mr. Saville, and take an open part in the struggle for 
liberty. It will be so much better and safer. ’ ’ 

He only shook his head, and she felt his arm tremble be- 
neath her hand. 

“ Do you think," he asked hesitatingly, “ we could find 
a safer place than this ? — one further away ?" 

“No, father; none half so safe as this. We cannot 
leave this place, where mother died," she answered, so de- 
cidedly that he yielded to her stronger will, and permitted 
himself to be led quietly within the cabin ; but, in accord- 
ance with his old habit, he sat, a sleepless watcher, through 
the night, in his dark comer, his eyes moving restlessly at 
the slightest sound without Vera tried to watch with him, 
but her head soon dropped upon the chair. 

Gula, shading the light with her hand, looked at her calm 
face a moment, and then went muttering to her loft, “ She 
doesn’t hear no voices yet" 


156 


JVEAJi TO NATURE'S HEART 


CHAPTER XIII. 

LIBERTY PROCLAIMED AMONG THE HIGHLANDS. 

S EVERAL evenings passed before Saville appeared again, 
and then he went directly to the cabin, for he had 
tidings for both father and daughter. 

^‘I wish you joy, Mr. Brown," he cried, as they went 
out to meet him. ‘‘ You are no longer under British law. 
This is a free country." And in rapid sentences he told 
them of the formal declaration of independence on the part 
of Congress, and of its joyous and hearty ratification by the 
people, as far as they had been heard from. 

His words greatly excited both his listeners, and a sudden 
gleam of exultation appeared upon the man’s haggard face. 
Saville saw his vantage, and added eagerly, 

I have been selected to read this solemn declaration to- 
morrow, at evening parade, before all the troops ; and I 
have come to ask you and Vera to be present. I will put 
you under the charge of our surgeon, whom Vera knows, 
and will guarantee your safety. Indeed, your safety largely 
depends upon your coming ; for if you are known to be 
present and approving upon such an occasion, it will disarm 
suspicion, and all will recognize that you are on our 
side. ’ ’ 

“ We will come," said Vera decisively ; for she felt that 
it might be the turning-point in their lives. 

“ Oh, no, my child ; I cannot," cried the father trem- 
blingly. 


LIBERTY PROCLAIMED AMONG THE HIGHLANDS. 157 


“Yes, father; you can and will,” said Vera calmly. “I 
shall go, and you will not permit me to go alone.” 

Urged by his strong desire to verify the tidings he had heard 
with his own ears, and Vera's gentle coercion, he yielded. 
It. was arranged that they should come the following day to 
a point, near the fort, where they would find Saville, who 
promised to give them a position which, while not conspic- 
uous, would enable them to hear those pregnant words which 
had created a new and independent nation. 

As may well be imagined, Vera’s excitement was scarcely 
less than that of her father, though more controlled. She 
was, at last, to catch a glimpse of the world and its inhabi- 
tants, concerning which she had thought and dreamed so 
much. She was to be present on an occasion of pomp 
and military display, and the one she loved and honored 
as the most excellent man existing, was to be the cen- 
tral figure. To her, he embodied the Declaration which 
he w’as to read, and was a synonym for liberty. In her 
fancy, she compared him to the youthful David of Bible his- 
tory, and the loftiest Shakspearian heroes ; and her heart 
overflowed in gratitude to God that He had raised up such 
a friend and deliverer for her and her father. Through his 
kind offices, she already, in hope, saw her father restored to 
sound reason and useful station, and both gaining a respect- 
ed and recognized place in society. To-morrow would be 
the auspicious day which would inaugurate the happy 
change. 

“ Mother was a true prophetess,” she said to herself a 
hundred times. “ He is the true friend whom God has 
raised up to rescue us.” 

Temptation was indeed coming to Vera as an angel cf 
light, but as yet no threatening cloud appeared above the 
bright horizon. As the thundergusts lurked behind her 
native mountains, to break at last as from a clear sky, so 


158 N£A/? TO NATURE'S HEART 

might the truth come to her. But now, with the unquenched 
confidence of a child, she exulted over the vista of hope and 
promise opening before her, and with an affection and ad- 
miration which was essentially that of a sister for a strong 
and gallant brother, she permitted Saville to become to l\er 
the centre of all earthly expectation. 

She was almost as sleepless that night as her father, and 
the next day, an hour before the appointed time for starting, 
was dressed in all the simple finery she possessed. And 
simple indeed it was ; for neither from her mother nor her 
foster parent, nature, had she acquired any artificial or gaudy 
tastes. 

Moccasins incased her feet. Her dark-blue gown was 
made alter the fashion in vogue when her mother was a 
maiden in her English home^ and was fastened at her throat 
by a quaint and ancient brooch. But her chief ornament 
was the wealth of golden hair that flowed, unconfined, far 
down her shoulders. Upon her head, as jauntily as when 
Saville first saw it, sat the plumage of the snowy heron. 

Saville wondered at her beauty, as she appeared, glowing 
with exercise and excitement, at the rendezvous. Her father 
also had seemingly nerved himself up to the emergency, and 
maintained the stately bearing of a gentleman of a former 
generation ; while Vera, to a very great degree, had removed 
from his person and dress the habitual appearance of dis- 
order. 

Saville led them at once to his quarters, and placed before 
them such refreshments as could be obtained in a mountain 
garrison. According to agreement, the bluff but kindly sur- 
geon soon appeared, and did his best to entertain the vis- 
itors. Saville would have introduced a few other officers, but 
Mr. Brown had stipulated that he should make the acquaint- 
ance of no other person than the surgeon. To his disordered 
fancy, danger menaced from every one who obtained knowl- 


LIBERTY PROCLAIMED AMONG THE HIGHLANDS. 159 

edge of him. Saville and Vera readily acquiesced, feeling 
that his habit of reserve and morbid fear could only be 
broken gradually. 

But Vera was more than content, and would have been 
in a state of childlike wonder and delight, had she been left 
solely to the enjoyment of the new and strange scenes wit- 
nessed now for the first time. But with Saville, and the 
surgeon who was kind to her mother, at her side, to explain 
and protect, she felt that her cup was full to overflowing. 

Saville noted with pleasure her simple grace and dignity 
of manner. She was his protegie, and he had felt some 
anxiety as to her appearance and bearing, and also lest she 
should be painfully embarrassed, or so odd in dress and 
manner as to attract unfavorable notice. But her bearing 
was that of a well-bred but diffident child. Her modest 
deference to the surgeon’s words both charmed and dis- 
armed him of the prejudice which her father’s life and repu- 
tation had created ; and her keen and intelligent interest in 
all she saw, and the innocent wonder that often found ex- 
pression upon her mobile features, amply repaid Saville for 
his effort to secure her presence. There was, withal, a trace 
of quaint Shakspearian stateliness in her words and manner, 
which, to one of his tastes, was far more pleasing than the 
artificial graces of the prevailing mode. 

As the hour approached for evening parade and the cere- 
monies attendant upon so important an occasion, Saville 
conducted them to a commanding yet sheltered position be- 
neath some overshadowing trees, from which they could §ee 
and hear all, and still not be full in the public eye. As 
Vera noticed this, and saw how relieved her father was that 
he could shrink partially out of sight, she said, 

“Do you read one’s thoughts, that yqur courtesy ia so 
kind ?” 

“ I should be dull indeed,” he replied, if I could not 


l6o NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 

read your thoughts, and most unkind not to please one so 
easily pleased. Good-by, now, for a time. I must go and 
p.epare for the part that I am to take.'' 

“ I am proud that it is the chief part,'’ she said exult- 
antly. 

Saville’s enthusiasm over the Declaration of Independence 
had scarcely known bounds, and so attracted the attention 
of his brother officers, that Colonel James Clinton, the com- 
manding officer, said laughingly, 

“ You shall read it at evening parade, for, judging from 
the feeling you show, you can do the document more justice 
than any of us.” 

“ I shall esteem it the greatest honor of my life, if I may,” 
responded Saville eagerly ; ‘‘for I see in this instrument 
the inauguration of a totally new condition of society. I 
think its writer was inspired, and that it contains more than 
he realized. He WTOught better than he knew. Take the 
words, ‘ all men are created equal, and are endow'ed with 
certain inherent and inalienable rights ; that among these 
are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.' Push these 
pregnant sentences to their logical conclusion, and they level 
all arbitrary distinctions, and break all chains, spiritual and 
temporal. They will make all men sovereigns, instead of 
vassals and slaves of tyranny, existing on earth or believed to 
exist somewhere else.” 

“ Hold on, Saville,” cried Clinton ; “you haven't quot- 
ed correctly. The document reads, ‘ endowed by their 
Creator with certain inherent and inalienable rights.' A 
Creator that can endow, can also impose restrictions.” 

“ I admit,” Saville had replied, “ that in the letter of its 
phraseology, the instrument accords with the waning super- 
stitions of the times ; but, as I said, the writer wrought bet- 
ter than he knew, and placed there the germs of a golden 
age, wherein man will be supreme, reason holding the 


LIBER TY PROCLAIMED A MO JVC THE HIGH! A NDS. 1 6 1 

sceptre. Suppose we break the bonds of King George, how 
can we possess liberty and pursue happiness, if we are tram- 
meled on every side by what some ancient bigots imagined 
was the will of an obscure Hebrew Divinity ? If we must 
be governed by the myths of remote antiquity, in the name 
of reason, let us go to Greece ; for there, at least, we shall 
find some breadth and beauty.’’ 

“If I saw in this document what you foreshadow. I’d 
burn it instead of having it read,” said Clinton, with an 
oath. “I see in it only independence of King George, and 
allegiance to the God of my fathers.” 

“ The acorn grows slowl}',” Saville answered ; “ but 
when it grows, the shell decays and drops away.” 

“Very well,” said Clinton; “you shall read it, and 
every man can interpret it for himself.” 

And .so it had been arranged. Apart from Saville’ s en- 
thusiasm, the selection would prove good in other respects, 
lor he had a fine presence, and a strong, sonorous voice. 

As the sun sank behind the western highlands, the tap of 
the drum summoned the garrison to their respective posi- 
tions, and filled all minds with eager expectancy. Vera 
heard the confused and hurrying tramp of feet, and rapid 
commands from officers which, though unintelligible to her, 
soon crystallized the human atoms into compact masses. 
In every part of the fort and island that was visible, bodies 
of men appeared with bayonets gleaming above their heads. 
Then, with a precision and order which only military disci- 
pline can produce, each company was put in motion by a 
single word, as if all were swayed by one will. The ryth- 
mical tread of many feet echoed and re-echoed on every 
side, and soon the open, level space before her began to fill 
with angular masses of men. At first, they seemed to her 
untaught eyes like human blocks placed here and there by 
chance ; but, as company and battalion came marching for- 


I62 


NEAR TO NATURES HEART, 


ward to the music of fife and drum till they seemed to form 
an innumerable host, she saw the angular human masses 
take, as it were by magic, the outline of three sides of a hol- 
low square. The martial sounds caused every nerve to 
tingle, and looking at her father, she saw, with a thrill of 
hope, that he was losing his shrinking manner, and that his 
eyes were kindling with a grand excitement akin to her own. 

In very brief time the lines were dressed, and the men 
standing like serried ranks of statues. A word of command 
rang out, which was followed by a subdued crash, as every 
firelock came simultaneously to the ground, and the ranks 
became statuesque in another attitude. She also saw that 
in the mean time every cannon had been manned along the 
extensive line of breastworks. A little in the rear of the 
nearest stood a person whose strange costume did not pre- 
vent Vera from recognizing as the young Irish girl whom she 
had occasionally met in her mountain excursions. It was 
no other than the redoubtable Molly O’Flarharty, dressed in 
a blue petticoat, the scarlet coat of an artilleryman, and a 
cocked hat worn rakishly on one side. She also saw, from 
Molly’s steady gaze, that she knew both herself and her 
father ; but, while the woman’s bold stare gave her for a 
moment an uncomfortable impression, she soon forgot her 
existence in the interesting scenes in which she was a par- 
ticipant. 

When all were in position, and silence had taken the 
place of the preceding din and tramp of feet, Colonel Clin- 
ton, with his staff officers, issued from the shadow of some 
large tents, and grouped themselves on the fourth and open 
side of the square, the commander being a little in advance 
of the others. To Vera, as they stood there in as brilliant 
uniforms as the times and their meagre purses permitted, 
they seemed heroes of the first magnitude. 

But when Saville’s tall form appeared, and he advanced 


liberty PROCLAIMED AMONG THE HIGHLANDS. 163 

and saluted Colonel Clinton with the erectness and steadi- 
ness of a trained soldier, combined with the ease and grace 
of one who had seen court life abroad, tears of exultant 
pride suffused her eyes, and she murmured, He towers 
above them all/' 

“ See what a grace is seated on this brow ; 

Hyperion’s curls ; the front of Jove himself ; 

An eye like Mars, to threaten and command ; 

A combination, and a form, indeed, 

Where every god did seem to set his seal. 

And give the world assurance of a man.” 

A deep hush fell upon the garrison, broken only by the 
rustle of the parchment as it was unrolled. Even the most 
stolid of the soldiery could be seen craning their necks that 
they might hear more distinctly the words that were so 
fraught with destiny to them and their children. But there 
was no need of such effort ; forSaville’s powerful voice, like 
a trumpet, sent every syllable even to the artillerymen stand- 
ing at the distant guns. 

When he came to the words, “ We hold these truths to 
be self-evident : that all men are created equal,'’ he gave to 
them such emphasis and meaning, that they thrilled all pres- 
ent, and touched the deep chord of human brotherhood in 
every heart. From the common soldiery, who felt their 
humble station, but believed that this truth made them peers 
of all mankind, there went up an irrepressible shout, whose 
echoes were long in dying away. Saville smiled, as he 
thought, “ Did I not say that the germ of perfect liberty and 
equality is in these words ? ay, and the instinct of the masses 
will discover it, in spite of their rulers. Even the mere an- 
nouncement causes these poor fellows to break the iron 
bands of military restraint. ' ' 

More than once the reader was interrupted by outbursts 
of applause, or by groans and hisses given with emphasis by 


164 


JV'EA/^ TO NATUI^E^S HEART, 


his recent subjects for King George, who, in this memorable 
document, was to hear the unvarnished truth in a form that 
would make his ears tingle. 

It was indeed a remarkable occasion and scene. In the 
words themselves, in the feelings of those who then for the 
first time heard them, and especially in view of the results, 
the element of sublimity was pre-eminent. It was befitting 
that the surroundings should be sublime ; that there should 
rise on every side solemn mountains, some in shadow, some 
crowned with light and glory, suggestive of the checkered 
fortunes of those who must fight long years for the liberty 
they were now claiming. But when a strong current of 
popular feeling and opinion sets steadily in one direction, it 
will break through all barriers, and overcome all obstacles, 
even as the broad river at their feet had cleft its way through 
miles of granite hills. 

As the last words fell fiom the reader’s lips — “ And for the 
support of this declaration we mutually pledge to each other 
our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor,” — a frenzy of 
enthusiasm seized upon all. The lines were partially broken, 
for the citizen soldiery were too recently from their democratic 
homes to be held in check, had restraint been attempted. 
The three-cornered continental hats were whirled high in 
air, and the prolonged and deafening shouts were but par- 
tially drowned by the cannon that, from every embrasure, 
thundered repeated salvos. The guns of Forts Clinton and 
Montgomery were soon answering like mighty echoes. 

Though the reader had acquitted himself admirably, he 
was content to be forgotten in the wild excitement over what 
he had read, and escaped almost unnoticed to Vera’s side. 
As he saw the deep intensity of feeling expressed in her dark 
blue eyes and earnest face, the thought occurred to him, 
“ She is not a child ; she is capable of becoming, if she is 
not already, a heroic woman. ’ ’ 


LIBERTY PROCLAIMED AMONG THE NIGEL AND S. 165 

The father, also, was so changed that he scarcely knew 
him. He looked, not only like one who could fight for lib- 
erty, but lead others in the conflict. Not from him, how 
ever, but from Vera, came the request that they might now 
depart 

“lam overpowered, “ she said ; “ perhaps if I had had 
former glimpses of the strange and unknown world, I would 
not feel so. But I am now overwhelmed, as I imagine one 
of the old prophets must have been just after he had seen a 
vision.’" 

“ The excitement has been too much for you,” said Sa- 
ville gently. 

“ Yes, for the moment ; but I have seen that which I can 
think over and dream about for months. I am very grate- 
ful to you for this wonderful experience ; but let us go now, 
and when you come again I shall have many questions to 
ask. Mother was right — you are the friend that she had a 
presentiment you would become. Oh, that she were with 
us to-day !” 

“ Your mother seems ever present to your mind,” said 
Saville, in a low tone, as they walked to the boat. 

“ Dear mother !” sighed Vera, in a tone that trembled 
with tenderness ; “ perhaps she is nearer to me than you, 
upon whose arm I lean.” 

It caused Saville a sudden and sharp pang to remember, 
as he believed, that her mother had vanished into nothing- 
ness, and had no longer any existence. 

On parting at the landing, Saville took Vera’s hand in 
both his, and said, 

“ I have learned to respect you very much to-day, my lit- 
tle friend. I think you are ceasing to be a child, and are 
becoming a woman.” 

“ I would rather be a child as long as I can,” said Vera 
humbly, “for I have so much to learn.” 


i66 


JVEA/? TO NATURE^ S HEART. 


Her father wrung the young man’s hand, and said, 

“ I shall be with you in this struggle actively, if not 
openly. ’ ’ 

“ Openly, my friend, openly, and all will be well,” cried 
Saville, as they pushed from the shore. 

If he had taken that advice, it might have saved him and 
his daughter years of suffering. 


ECHOES ALONG THE HUDSON, 


167 


CHAPTER XIV. 

ECHOES ALONG THE HUDSON. 

E arly in the season — indeed, as soon as it became 
probable that his native city, New York, would be 
the next point of attack — Saville had commenced to chafe 
at the orders that kept him so far from the prospective scene 
of action, and made him little more than an overseer of the 
soldier laborers, working upon fortifications. When, at 
last, the beacon fires and subsequent intelligence announced 
that the enemy were in the harbor, and the city was liable 
to assault at any moment, he could scarcely restrain his im- 
patience, and at once made application to be transferred to 
the main army. He was now daily hoping to receive the 
orders he desired. In the uncertainty, he had decided to 
say nothing to Vera, since, if the request were denied, she 
would be saved from the pain of fearing his departure ; and, 
should it be granted, she would be preserved from days of 
anxious anticipation. 

But in the mean time events occurred which intensified his 
desire to visit the city, and he began to feel that the duty he 
owed his mother was conflicting most painfully with that of 
a soldier. If he could only remove her to a place of safety, 
he would even be content to return to the mountain fort 
where there was no immediate prospect of active service. 
This anxiety kept him on the alert for every rumor from the 
city, and in that feverish and portentous time there were 
rumors innumerable. 


i68 


J\r£A/^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


But on the 13th of July, while directing a working party 
in the construction of a bastion, he noticed two sloops com- 
ing up the river at an unusual speed. The wind was blow- 
ing very strongly from the southeast, and yet they carried so 
much sail as to involve danger, and at times would careen 
over to the water’s edge. Saville was something of a sailor, 
and he knew that none of the easy-going skippers of the 
river craft would carry all the canvas they could raise, in 
such a gale, unless there was urgent reason. 

Scanning them through his glass, he was soon convinced 
that there was reason, and that events of great importance 
had occurred below. He was confirmed in this surmise 
when the vessels, instead of standing on past the fort, ap- 
proached the shore, and came up before the wind. Even 
while casting anchor two boats shoved off, and a few mo- 
ments later the captains of the sloops were clambering up the 
rocky bank and asking for an audience with Colonel Clin- 
ton. Saville led them at once to the commandant’s tent, 
and the bluff skippers, almost in a breath, said : 

“ Colonel Clinton, look well to your guns. The British- 
ers attacked the city yesterday afternoon, and some of their 
largest ships were a-standin’ straight up the river when 
night closed in. If they keep on they’ll be here afore long. ” 

Then followed several hurried questions and answers. 
Clinton was a prompt man and a brave soldier, and though 
his garrison and works were ill able to cope with English 
ships of the line, he had no other thought save that of resist- 
ance to the last. 

“ Make all sail,” he said to the captains, “ for New 
Windsor, where you will find my brother, the general. Tell 
him what you have told me. Ask him to order out the 
militia at once, and reinforce me at the quickest possible 
moment. ’ ’ 

The captains needed no urging, and scrambled aboard 


ECHOES ALONG THE HUDSON. 


169 


their vessels, which were soon lying upon their sides again, 
in imminent danger, as every inch of canvas swelled with 
the freshening gale. But, even in advance of their swift 
progress, and in accordance with a preconcerted signal, 
Colonel Clinton sent the echoes of a heavy gun booming up 
the river, warning his brother, the warrior*governor, that the 
guardians of the Highlands must bestir themselves at once. 

“ I am sorry, Saville,’’ he said to the anxious- visaged 
young officer ; “ but there is no use in your thinking of get- 
ting away now. The garrison is ridiculously weak as it is. 
Out with every man who can handle a pick or spade. We 
must fight with these while the red-coats give us a chance.’’ 
And, having put everybody in motion at Fort Constitution, 
he hastened down to Forts Montgomery and Clinton, to 
push forward the work there also, and arrange for signals, 
should the enemy’s ships appear. 

Saville, as a good soldier often must do, ignored all per- 
sonal interests and affections, and, to his utmost, seconded 
the endeavors of his commander. In order to animate the 
men, he even laid hold of the tools himself, in emergencies 
that required unusual effort ; and the ramparts seemed vis- 
ibly to grow under the eager labors of officers and men. 

Late in the afternoon. General George Clinton’s barge, 
filled with men, was descried coming down the river, and 
the belligerent governor was soon concerting measures of de- 
fense with his brother, who, in the mean time, had returned. 
Having informed Colonel Clinton of the important steps he 
had taken, and of the various regiments that would speedily 
be on the march to reinforce the posts, he said, 

“ I shall make my headquarters at Fort Montgomery, as 
that is nearest the enemy. I want to take down with me 
one or two engineer officers, to help push forward the lines.’' 

“ Yonder is a man who is not afraid of work,” said the 
colonel ; and Saville was instructed to accompany the gov- 


170 


NEAR TO NATURES HEART. 


ernor at once, and told that his baggage would be sent after 
him. 

The day passed, and brought no enemy ; but the feverish 
excitement and expectancy were not permitted to die out ; 
for, as soon as darkness closed, the hill tops far to the south 
began to blaze, and the Dunderberg, Bear Mountain, Sugar 
Loaf, Cro’ Nest, and Butter Hill speedily assumed their 
crowns of flame. 

From the rocky height above the cabin, Vera and her 
father watched the ominous glare, for a long time, with deep 
anxiety. However little she might know of its cause, one 
thing was certain — it portended danger to her only friend. 

On her was imposed already the most painful experience 
of war — woman’s helpless waiting and watching for those 
they love. 

Not many hours later, swift riders brought tidings to the 
fort that the admiral, Lord Howe, had come to co-operate 
with General Howe, his brother, and that the active cam- 
paign would no doubt commence at once. 

On the following day came a letter from Washington, urg- 
ing General Clinton to do what had already been accom- 
plished, for the energetic governor had stirred up the whole 
country. In the evening the notes of the drum and fife 
were heard along the river road, and three hundred of the 
hardy Ulster County militia marched into the fort. 

During the night, Vera saw many lights on the mountain- 
side, to the west ; they were the camp fires of five hundred 
men, who arrived in the fort early the next morning, and, 
after a brief respite, for rest and refreshment, all were at woik 
upon the fortifications, every man acting, in the grand ex- 
citement of the moment, as if all depended on himself. 

For two or three days Saville’s labors were incessant, and 
he had scarcely time to obtain necessary rest. But, as mat- 
ters quieted down somewhat, and the English ships remained 


ECHOES ALONG THE HUDSON, 171 

• 

quietly at anchor in Haverstraw Bay, he found an oppor- 
tunity to slip across the river, on a visit to the mountain 
cabin. Vera was overjoyed to see him again ; for, from 
her eyries, even her unpracticed eyes had descried prepara- 
tions for immediate conflict : while her father was tremblingly 
eager to obtain the latest tidings. 

“ I am out with my rifle,’' he said, “ on the southern 
hills, as long as I can see ; and you have one vigilant scout 
in your service, if he is unknown.” 

“ Let me report your services to the general,” said Sa- 
ville ; “it will be so much better for you both, if your po- 
sition is known.” 

“ Not yet, not just yet,” said the man nervously. “ I 
am not equal to it yet : you must give me time.” 

And so the fatal delay to take a recognized part in the 
war continued. 

Saville’s visit was necessarily brief, for he could not long 
be absent from his post. In parting, he said, 

“ Good-by, once more, my little sister ; I will see you 
again soon if I can; but in these times we do not know what 
an hour will bring forth. If we should not meet in a long 
while, you must not grieve too much.” 

“ I should not sorrow,” said Vera tearfully, “ as others 
who have no hope ; for I believe in another world, and a 
better life than this, where we shall not be disturbed by these 
rude alarms ; but grieve I would — and how deeply, you can 
never know. Am I so rich in friends that I need not 
grieve V ’ 

“ How will it be when you come to have many?” he 
asked, half playfully. 

Looking full into his eyes, without the faintest blush 
tinging her pale cheeks, she said earnestly, 

“ If that time ever comes, you will still be first.” 

They accompanied him to his boat, for every moment 


172 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 


with him was precious. As he pushed away the father 
said, 

“ I shall be watching on the Dunderberg to-morrow.'’ 

The presence of English ships so high up in the waters of 
the Hudson, created intense excitement along its shores, 
among both Whigs and Tories ; nor was the general ferment 
diminished by the fact that the enemy’s boats were out 
daily, taking soundings far up toward the Highlands. 
Everything indicated that they were preparing to take pos- 
session of the liver. 

On the afternoon of the day following Saville’s visit, sig- 
nals were seen along the mountain-sides, which indicated 
that the enemy were approaching. The drums beat to 
arms, and all were ordered to their posts. The guns were 
manned, and the matches ready for lighting. 

Before very long, one of the tenders of the British ships 
was seen beating up against a stiff northern breeze, which 
would enable her to retire rapidly in case of danger. But 
the occupants of the fort supposed that the men-of-war were 
following, and prepared for the worst. Larry, whose com- 
pany had been again ordered down to Fort Montgomery, 
was stationed near a long thirty-two pounder which had the 
best range of the river, and was not a little nervous, now 
that his amorous enlistment had brought him face to face 
with something more than garrison duty ; but his wife, 
Molly, aflame with excitement, hovered near him, voluble 
now with gibes and taunts, and again with words of cheer. 
The element of fear seemed totally lacking in her composi- 
tion, and in this respect her influence was good over the raw 
recruits, who dreaded to “ show the white feather,” as it 
was termed, where a woman was undaunted. Thus she be- 
came a privileged character, and was tolerated, as useful 
camp-followers often are. Many an awkward fellow, though 
badly frightened, would rather march to a cannon’s mouth 


ECHOES ALONG THE HUDSON, 


173 


than receive a scornful glance from Molly’s black eyes ; and 
if she gave a man an opprobrious nickname, it stuck to him 
like a burr. Colonel Clinton would often laugh, as he 
said, 

“ Molly makes soldiers out of the militia faster than the 
drill officers.” 

But Larrj’ had become proof against all her sarcasms. He 
had philosophically accepted his matrimonial fate, and only 
shrugged his shoulders at her keenest thrusts. 

But that English vessel which was beating slowly up 
against the wind, and the others that he believed to be fol- 
lowing, might give him something harder to digest than 
words, and he heartily wished himself back in the “ Quid 
Counthry,” even though there was “ not a praty in the 
bin.” But he had nerve enough to go through with his 
duties, and that was all that was required of him. 

At last it was thought that the vessel was in range, and 
the governor himself, as well as the officer in command of 
the artillery, ran his eye along the gun. 

“Fire!” he cried. 

Every eye was strained, and happy were they who had 
glasses. A shout of exultation v/ent up, as the ball was seen 
to plow into the tender's quarter, and applause was again 
and again repeated as she quickly went about and scudded 
down the river before the wind. The echoes had scarcely 
died away, before Larry breathed freer in the hope that the 
attack would not be made, and that he should “ live to fight 
another day.” 

Saville asked and obtained permission to follow the tender 
in his sail -boat, and observe her movements, and was soon 
skimming along before the breeze at a rate that would make 
it necessary to drop his sail, unless he wished to enjoy the 
hospitality of a British prison-ship. As it was, he ap- 
proached so near that a brass howitzer on the tender was 


174 


JVEJJ? TO NATURE'S HEART, 


brought to bear upon him, and the ball passed over his 
head, striking the water a little to the leeward. He con- 
I eluded to run his boat into a sheltering cove, until the ten- 
der sailed out of range ; but in doing so, had narrow escapes 
from two more shots. He did not know that the self- 
appointed scout was watching all from the sides of the Dun- 
derberg, and that Vera would grow pale as she heard of his 
peril. 

When the tender had receded sufficiently, he reefed his 
sail and followed more cautiously, contenting himself with 
the use of his glass. He had not proceeded far, before the 
English vessel suddenly rounded to, and cast anchor. A 
boat was lowered, and Saville first thought that they intend- 
ed giving him a chase, in the hope that he might be cap- 
tured, since he would have to beat up against the breeze. 
But, confident of the sailing abilities of his little craft, he 
determined to let them come within range of his rifle before 
going about. 

But the boat, on the contrary, was pulled steadily toward 
shore ; and soon a farm-house, at the base of the moun- 
tain, was in flames, while the cries of its occupants came to 
him faintly against the gale. 

“ Do they call that war muttered Saville indignantly. 
“ I must have a shot at those base marauders." And he 
ran his boat in shore, behind a projecting rock, and unship- 
ped the mast, so that nothing could be seen. Then, seizing 
his rifle, he sprang up the mountain-side, and made the best 
speed he could, over the rocks, through the copse-wood, 
toward the burning dwelling. 

The work of destruction was complete, and the incen- 
diaries had already embarked before he came within range. 
He feared they would be out of reach before he could get a 
shot. But the boat had proceeded from the shore but a lit- 
tle distance, when a sharp report rang out from the sides of 


ECHOES ALONG THE HUDSON. 


175 


the Dunderberg, and the stroke oarsman fell over backward. 
This caused some confusion and delay, and Saville gained 
on the boat rapidly. But, after a moment or two, the oars 
struck the water more vigorously than ever, and Saville was 
about to fire, and do the best he could, when a second well- 
aimed shot disabled the oarsman who had been substituted, 
and again delayed progress somewhat. 

He now sprang down the rocks toward the water, and 
whipping out the glass that was slung over his shoulder, en- 
deavored to distinguish, if possible, the form of the officer in 
command, feeling that he, more than any of the rest, de- 
served punishment. Though this man, with the cowardice 
in keeping with his deed of rapine, sought to hide himself 
among the crew, Saville’ s glass revealed his insignia of rank. 
Leaning his rifle over a rock, he took deliberate aim, and 
fired ; then, taking up his glass, he had the satisfaction of 
seeing the craven spring up, and fall overboard, while his 
cry of pain came distinctly across the water. He was im- 
mediately pulled on board, but whether dead or alive, Sa- 
ville could not tell, and in a moment or two more the boat 
passed out of range. The few random shots that had been 
fired by the marines pattered harmlessly against the rocks ; 
for the two fatal marksmen were well concealed. 

Saville now remembered that Mr. Brown had said that he 
would be watching on the Dunderberg that day, and he at 
once surmised that it was he who had fired the first two shots. 
In the hope of seeing him and taking him back in his boat, 
he sent his powerful voice far up the mountain, 

“ A friend — Saville.” 

“I believe you are, Mr. Saville,” said a quiet voice at 
his side ; and to his surprise, on looking around, he saw the 
object of his thoughts standing before him. 

“ How, in the name of the impossible, did you get here 
without my seeing you ?” 


176 


TO NATURE'S HEART, 


‘ ‘ I toM you that I could be something of a scout, and 
wished to prove it/' 

“You can be invaluable if you will," said Saville, shak- 
ing his hand heartily. “ Those were splendid shots you 
made." 

“ Yours was a better one, and at a longer distance. I 
am glad you hit that miscreant in command. I v^ould have 
sighted him, but I Saw you coming, and wished to delay the 
boat till you got within range. But it would have been an 
infernal shame to have let that fellow escape, for he treated 
the inmates of the farm-house brutally. Good God ! the 
thought of such a wretch coming to my cabin in my ab- 
sence !" 

‘ ‘ Mr. Brown, you owe it to your lovely daughter to place 
her in some position of safety in these troublous times." 

“ I believe you are right," muttered the father, with con- 
tracting brows. 

“ Let us find an asylum for her and old Gula at once, 
and then do you openly join the army. I will look after 
your interests." 

“ I believe I will," said the exile hesitatingly ; and he 
suffered Saville to lead him to his boat. 

If they had been near the fort all might have been well, 
and the man enrolled in the Continental service. But, as 
he sat quietly in the boat, while it tacked slowly up the river 
against the wind, his blood had time to cool. Reaction 
from the fatigue and excitement of the day set in. One of 
the old waves of fear and despondency began to surge over 
his unstable mind, and Saville heard him mutter, 

“ My God ! I have shot two English soldiers. If ever 
apprehended, my fate is made doubly certain. " 

At last he said piteously, “Put me ashore anywhere ; I 
can go no further." 

Saville reminded him of his promise, and pleaded with 


ECHOES ALONG THE HUDSON. 


177 


him to keep it for Vera’s sake, but soon saw that it was in 
vain. 

“ Put me ashore,” was the only response, and uttered 
in tones that were almost savage. Then he added, half 
apologetically, “lam not myself now, and all I can do is 
to cower and hide. I will see you again soon.” 

Saville reluctantly acquiesced. 

“ Say not a word about me till you have my consent,” 
said his trembling companion ; and he dashed into the 
thickest copse-wood, as if his only thought were concealment. 

Alas for Vera ! 


178 


NEA/^ TO NATURE'S HEART, 


CHAPTER XV. 


SAVILLE S NIGHT RECONNOISSANCE. 


AVILLE proposed, on the following day, to visit the 



O cabin, in the hope of finding its owner in a better 
mood. He was more and more convinced of the wrong of 
leaving Vera so exposed, and with no better protector than 
one who, at times, was ready to fly from his own shadow. 
He saw that her father’s mind was more shattered than he 
had supposed, that he could not be depended on even from 
hour to hour, and was fast coming to the conclusion to act 
independently of his will, if possible. 

But early in the day came the startling tidings that the 
British men-of-war — the Phoenix ^ carrying forty guns, and 
the Rose, twenty, were standing steadily up the’ river. 

Again there was preparation for immediate conflict, but 
the vessels came to anchor within six miles of the fort, and 
there remained quietly. 

With the enemy, however, in such close proximity, no 
one could leave his post that night or the next day. 

Governor Clinton was greatly alarmed, and with good 
reason. The river was deep, and, with a fair wind, the ships 
could speedily pass his guns, unless disabled ; and, once 
above the Highlands, a rich and defenseless country was 
open to ravage. He feared that they might take advantage 
of some dark night, and slip by him in the deep shadows of 
the mountains. 

To prevent this, the shores were lined with guards, and 


SAVILLE'S NIGHT RECONNOISSANCE. 179 


the river patroled by boats. Huge piles of brushwood, and 
other inflammable materials, were placed at various points 
along the shore opposite the fort, and these were to be kin- 
dled after nightfall, the moment it was discovered that the 
ships were under weigh. Thus the fort would remain in 
darkness, while the men-of-war must pass distinctly through 
the transient glare, and so become excellent targets. 

The cannoniers slept by their guns, while Molly’s scarlet 
coat flamed along the ramparts by day, and she flitted hither 
and thither almost as restlessly at night. Every morning 
found her as morose and vixenish as one of the wildcats of 
her native mountains, because the signal fires had not blazed, 
and that all had remained quiet on the Hudson. 

There soon came a day on which there was a steady down- 
fall of rain, and it was feared that the brush-heaps and com- 
bustibles would become so dampened that they would not 
kindle. The night promised to be excessively dark, and 
Saville learned that the general was growing anxious. 

He again volunteered to go in his boat on a reconnois- 
sance, and his offer was gladly accepted. 

“ If we fire three' shots in instant succession, you may 
know that the ships are under weigh up the river, but if we 
fire at intervals, give no heed, for it may be necessary in 
self-defense, or we may have a skirmish.” 

“ Don’t do anything rash,” said the governor. “You 
are such a fire-eater, that I scarcely expect to see you 
again.” 

Saville chose two active young fellows, who had been boat- 
men, to accompany him, and with muffled oars they pulled 
vigorously at first, till they began to approach the hostile 
vessels. Then they permitted themselves to drift slowly with 
the tide, which was in their favor. The darkness had be- 
come perfectly intense, and there was not a sound save the 
heavy palter of rain on the water. 


i8o NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 

They drifted for a period that seemed interminable to their 
excited minds, and then Saville whispered, 

“ I fear we shall pass without seeing them. The fact that 
they have no lights out is very suspicious.'’ 

Scarcely had he spoken when the gentle breeze from the 
south caused a slight creaking of cordage so near that it 
seemed just over their heads. He at once crept cautiously 
to the bow of his boat, and put out his hands, so that it 
might not strike with even the slightest concussion. 

It was not long before a faint black outline loomed up 
over him, and a moment later his hands touched the sides of 
a ship. P'eeling stealthily along, he found that he was near 
the bow, and, by standing up, was able to hold his boat for 
a time in motionless silence. He could hear the confused 
sound of voices, and the step of the officer of the watch, but 
nothing definite. 

At last, footsteps and voices approached the bow of the 
ship under which he stood. Some one said distinctly, 

“ It’s cursed dark." 

“ Yes ; but that would be in our favor, if we only get a 
little more wind from the present quarter, and could feel 
our way up through these black hills. It’s just the time to 
catch the rebels napping.’ ' 

Saville concluded that he would now put a word in their 
counsels. 

“ Have my pistol ready,’’ he whispered to the nearest of 
his companions. 

Then, by a powerful effort, he pushed his boat well away 
from the ship, and shouted, 

“ But the rebels are not napping, and, as proof, take that," 
and he fired his pistol where he supposed the group to be. 

There was a sharp cry of pain, followed by great confu- 
sion for a moment, and in the mean time Savi lie’s compan- 
ions pulled rapidly away. 


SAVILLE'S NIGHT RECONNOISSANCE. i8i 

“ Here, a lantern, quick ! Hold it over the side,” 
shouted a hoarse voice. 

• This was all that Saville desired, and taking up his rifle he 
fired instantly, and man and lantern splashed overboard. 

” Lights, lights ! man the guns ! every man to his post !” 
roared the same gruff voice. ‘‘ This comes of playing bo- 
peep in the dark. The cursed rebels might put a keg of 
powder under our quarter, and blow us up.” 

” Would to the gods I had thought of that before,” cried 
Saville ; ” but I thank you for the suggestion all the same.” 

” Stop his mouth with grape shot,” thundered the officer, 
” Isn’t there a musket or a pop-gun aboard, that no one 
can fire a shot ?’ ’ 

” Pull sharp to the left,'’ said Saville to his oarsmen. 

The confusion and uproar on the ship were so great that 
a moment or two elapsed before the officer’s order could be 
obeyed, and then a bow-gun belched forth the iron hail, 
and a scattering fire from muskets commenced ; but the 
balls only cut harmlessly into the water in the region where 
the bold patrols had been. 

When once under the rayless shadow of the western moun- 
tain, Saville felt safe from pursuit. In the mean time nu- 
merous lights appeared on the other ships, and indicated their 
positions. 

” I am going to ask you,” said Saville to his compan- 
ions, ” to do something that, after all, is not so dangerous 
as it seems. The ships there are lighted up, while complete 
darkness covers us. One of you can scull, I suppose.” 

” Yes ; both.” 

” Who is the best shot ?” 

‘ ‘ I used to bring a squirrel out of the tallest trees, ’ ’ said 
one of the men. 

” Well, by sculling we can move noiselessly around among 
the ships, now on one side, now on the other, and make 


i 82 


JVEAJ? TO NATURE'S HEART, 


them think there are a dozen boats here instead of one. I 
wish two shots fired in rapid succession occasionally, to in- 
crease the impression of numbers. In this way we can keep 
them in an uproar and state of alarm all night, while we, by 
moving rapidly from point to point, will run but little risk 
of being hit.” 

His companions had the nerve to enter upon the scheme 
at first with zest ; and one of them, seizing an oar, soon 
propelled the boat within range of the ship with which they 
had first come in contact. Dropping well astern, they ap- 
proached slowly and cautiously her nearest quarter. Soon 
the outline of a human form gave Saville a fair mark, and 
his rifle again rang out with startling distinctness in the si- 
lent night. 

The man with the oar then sculled rapidly toward the 
eastern shore, passing directly aft of the vessel. Again there 
was the trampling of feet, and a hurried giving of orders, and 
many shots were fired in the direction from whence had 
been seen the flash of Saville’ s rifle. But, in the momentary 
delay, the lively little craft had passed so far to the eastward 
as to be out of range. 

” Now,” said Saville, ” let us give them two shots on the 
other quarter. The moment we fire, scull down the river. 
Come around well abreast, so that it will seem as if our shots 
were fired from another boat.” 

In a few moments, the firing from the ship ceased, as it 
seemed to produce no effect ; but there was evidently great 
excitement on board. 

They had scarcely reached the position which Saville de- 
sired, when several men were sent aloft with lanterns, in the 
hope that their rays might penetrate the darkness more 
effectually. 

‘ ‘ Steady and careful now, * ’ said Saville. ‘ ‘ Let us each pick 
off one of those fellows in the rigging. Fire just after me.” 


SA VILLENS NIGHT RECONNOISSANCE. 183 


Thus to the bewildered and harassed marines two flashes 
came from a new and unexpected point. 

Saville’s man dropped plump on the deck, the other let 
his lantern fall, and, after an ineffectual effort to climb 
down, fell also. 

But the enemy were now better prepared, and bullets fell 
thickly around the unseen assailants. 

Fortunately they escaped, and soon reached a point to the 
south where their position was unsuspected. 

“ They are getting too sharp for us here," said Saville ; 
“ suppose we next have a skirmish with that big fellow 
yonder. ’ ’ 

His companions agreed, but rather reluctantly ; for this 
measure of attacking an English fleet was more than they 
bargained for on leaving the fort. 

“ I will give you a crack across her bow," said the man 
at the oar ; “ but would rather not go any lower down." 

It was arranged that two shots should be fired again. 
Drifting with the tide, they slowly approached the second 
and larger ship, which was the Phoenix, and watched for 
their opportunity. In the meanwhile, comparative silence 
was again restored, though it was evident that all hands on 
both the ships of the line and their tenders were kept in 
sleepless vigilance at their posts by their ubiquitous assail- 
ants, who numbered but three. 

At last, dusky forms appeared, and the two rifles again 
awoke the sleeping echoes, but with what effect could not 
be seen. 

The commander of the Phoenix, however, warned by the 
experience of the other ship, had stationed marines all along 
the sides of his vessels, and the return volley was so prompt 
and accurate that Saville’s fellow marksman was slightly 
wounded. Happily the man at the oar escaped, and they 
again passed out of range, by going toward the western shore, 


184 


JVEA/? TO NATURE'S HEART, 


and the English officers soon checked the useless firing at 
random. 

But Saville had effected his object. There would be no 
sleep on the British vessels that night, nor any hope of catch- 
ing the “ rebels napping.” So he hoisted sail, and quietly 
stood up the river, leaving Ihe sorely puzzled and not a little 
frightened British crews standing at their guns and alarm- 
posts, so that any attempt at boarding, on the part of the in- 
definite number of rebels imagined in the surrounding dark- 
ness, might be repelled. 

Saville and his companions received high praise for their 
conduct, and were soon sleeping peacefully, while the har- 
assed enemy remained on the alert until daybreak. 

Note. — The incidents of the preceding chapters are largely 
founded on fact. The tidings of the irruption of the British ships 
into the waters of the Hudson were brought as described. A ten- 
der of these ships ventured within range of Fort Montgomery, and 
received a shot in her quarter. On retiring down the river, her 
boat was sent ashore, a farm-house burnt, and the boat, on re- 
turning, was fired upon. The Phcenix and Rose approached within 
six miles of the fort, and, whenever opportunity offered the Eng- 
lish vessels were annoyed by marksmen in boats or from the shore. 


DARK DA YS. 


185 


CHAPTER XVI. 

DARK DAYS. 

O N the following day the commanders of the British 
vessels satisfied themselves that fuller preparations 
for resistance had been made than they supposed ; and, not 
relishing the experience of the preceding night, nor consid- 
ering it safe to remain in a position where the deep shadows 
of the mountains might afford concealment until an attack- 
ing force was close upon them, they ordered their ships 
down the river to the old anchorage. 

Fear of immediate attack having passed, Saville's thoughts 
recurred to Vera and her father, and he proposed visiting 
them that evening, hoping that he might find Mr. Brown in 
a condition to carry out the measures on which his own and 
Vera's welfare depended. But during the afternoon he was 
hastily summoned to headquarters. 

“ I can now give you a quasi leave of absence," said 
General Clinton ; “ and you have earned it. Go and look 
after your mother’s safety. But first deliver these dispatches 
to his Excellency, General Washington. They are impor- 
tant, and must reach him at the earliest possible moment. 
Your escort will be ready within an hour on the further ^ 
shore. I have mentioned your name with praise in my dis- 
patches, and though I shall feel your loss, you will probably 
be assigned to duty in the main army. When things are 
somewhat settled, your heavy baggage will be sent after you. 
And now, sir, hasten. Give those papers into his Excel- 
lency’s own hands, or into those of his private secretary." 


i86 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


Saville was greatly pleased at this turn of affairs, and, in 
the excitement and bustle attendant upon his hurried de- 
parture, forgot for a time the inmates of the cabin. When 
he did remember them, it was with a pang of genuine pain 
and regret, that he could not see Vera before his departure. 
As this was impossible, he penned a few hasty lines, explain- 
ing his sudden movements, and urging that she should find 
a safer retreat, and that her father should enlist openly in the 
war. This was sent to the surgeon at Fort Constitution, 
with the request that he would deliver it. Unfortunately, 
the missive was never received. 

Having arrived in New York, and delivered his dispatches 
as directed, Saville received permission to provide for his 
mother’s safety. 

The old lady, however, would not leave her city home, 
asserting, 

“ I have naught to do with this unnatural broil, and shall 
demand protection from both parties.” 

But, after all, her chief motive was the desire to be near 
her beloved son, who, she hoped, might be assigned to 
duty upon the works that were going up at various points 
on the island. In this expectation she was ready to endure 
the terrors attendant upon the city’s bombardment. 0 

Saville therefore gave up his leave of absence, and at once 
reported for duty again. In consideration of his natural de- 
sire to see more of his mother after so long an absence, he 
was given charge of the construction of some redoubts not far 
from his own house, and at a point where his wife could 
plainly scan his movements with a glass. Often and darkly 
she scowled upon him. 

But the disastrous battle of Long Island soon occurred, 
and was speedily followed by the retreat of the American 
forces from the city and island. Saville, in his sphere, and 
to the extent of his ability, seconded Washington’s masterly 


DARK DA YS. 


187 


use of the pick and shovel in the disheartening campaign 
that followed. He now sought thoroughly to learn his 
profession, and became an efficient officer. Washington 
learned to know something of his value, finding that he had 
promptness and energy, which enabled him to accomplish 
much even with few men ; and at times, defenses reared in 
a night were worth regiments. 

On the 4th and 5lh of November, the British forces began 
to retire from before Washington’s strong position in the in- 
terior of Westchester County, taking the roads leading south- 
ward and toward the river. As soon as it became evident 
that the enemy would cross into the Jerseys and menace 
Philadelphia, Saville was sent thither to aid in strengthening 
the defenses of that city. Thus his hope of seeing Vera at 
the close of the fall campaign was disappointed. He wrote 
to her again, as he had several times before, in care of the 
surgeon at Fort Constitution. But that officer had been as- 
signed to duty elsewhere, and the letters never reached their 
destination. Saville comforted himself with the hope that 
Vera was informed of his movements and continued remem- 
brance. 

As day after day passed, and nothing was seen or heard 
of her friend, a great dread began to chill Vera’s heart. 
Her father had come back from his watch on the Dunder- 
berg in a wretched condition of mind. With scarcely a 
word, he had cowered all the long night in his dark comer. 
But, as the result of rest and quiet, the incubus lifted from 
his mind somewhat in the morning, and Vera heard of Sa- 
ville’ s peril in following the tender down the river, and of 
his firing into the marauder’s boat. Of his own share in the 
transaction her father was characteristically silent, even to his 
daughter. 

On the dark and stormy night of Saville’ sreconnoissance, 
the southern breeze had borne faintly through the damp air 


i88 


J\r£A/^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


the reports of the guns. To her, every such sound now 
meant danger to him. 

The days passed, and still he did not come. Her father 
told her that the ships had moved down the river. As far 
as she could judge, the garrison opposite had no apprehen- 
sion of immediate attack. She urged her father to go down 
to Fort Montgomery and make direct inquiries ; but vainly. 
Saville’s prolonged and unexplained absence had awakened 
his morbid suspicions and fears, ‘and his mind was so shat- 
tered that he was not capable of the effort. 

A look of wistful, anxious expectancy became the habitual 
expression of Vera’s face. The slightest sound startled 
her. In her daily tasks, her face was ever toward the win- 
dow. The breaking of a twig, the bark of a squirrel, 
brought her to the door. She often ventured down to the 
shore, and strained her eyes in the vain effort to recognize 
him on the island opposite. Constant prayer for his welfare 
and speedy return was in her heart. 

At the twilight hour, when he had been accustomed to 
appear, she would climb to the rocky height behind the 
cabin, and wait and watch, as they who are wrecked on a 
barren island scan the horizon for a ship. As dusk deepened 
into night, her despondency would become more leaden 
and oppressive. Then she would drag her heavy steps back 
to the cabin, and sigh and sob herself to sleep. 

Not even Gula’s entreaties could induce her to eat much, 
and she grew wan and spirit-like indeed. The old woman 
began to shake her head ominously, and mutter, 

“ I’se afeard she’s beginnin’ to hear voices. ’Twill be 
orful lonely if she goes home afore ole Gula.” 

One evening after she had been vainly watching, she tried 
to sing the musical signal which he had so often answered 
by voice and flute, 

“ I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows.” 


« 



Waiting and Watching 




•>L1 




DA/^AT DA YS. 


189 


She sang one line with a pathos that would have touched 
the stoniest nature, and then held her throbbing heart to 
listen. The weird notes of a whippoorwill from the lonely 
valley were the only answer. 

She threw herself upon the ground, like a child, in an 
agony of grief, and wept until utterly exhausted. When she 
looked up, the lurid glare of the beacon fires was again 
upon the mountain-tops, but he had not come. 

** O God !” she sighed wearily. “I am a weak child. 
I had but one friend —one brother. Where is Thy mercy ^ ’ 

“ O mother ! are you happy in heaven, when I am so 
lonely ?” 

Poor Vera was in the deepest mystery of earthly disci- 
pline. Her God, her mother, and her friend, all seemed to 
have deserted her that night, and she could scarcely drag her 
weary feet to the home where no gentle sympathy awaited. 

Her father was away upon the hills with his rifle most of 
the time, and was wholly absorbed by his interest in the 
progress of the war, at >Vhich he could only guess, as he 
would speak to no one. Vera had hoped that he might 
again meet Saville, and whenever he returned, she eagerly 
questioned him. 

Old Gula, in her strange superstition, sorrowed mostly 
for herself, as she saw Vera growing pale and weak like the 
parent who had died. 

“ Young missy is a gwine home to her mudder, and I’ll 
be left all alone. Why can’t de voices call me too ?” 

On the evening after her almost despairing grief, Vera said 
to herself, “ I can endure this suspense no longer. He is 
either sick, wounded, or dead ; for he could not have left 
without a word of farewell. I will go to the fort and find 
out. He may have needed my help, while I have been 
weakly mourning for him.” 

Nerved by this thought, she waited not a moment, lest 


190 


N£AJ^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


her maidenly timidity should obtain the mastery. For his 
sake— impelled by the thought that he might possibly be in 
need of her care — she could venture to face the stare of 
strangers. 

It did not take long to row her light skiff to the opposite 
shore, and bitter tears filled her eyes as she thought of the 
two former occasions on which she had crossed at that place. 

Near the spot where she had landed when in quest of the 
surgeon, she saw a small group of men, and, from their 
uniforms, surmised that they were officers. It occurred to 
her that she might question them, and be saved the ordeal 
of meeting others. She concluded to ask for the surgeon, 
since, if Saville were sick, wounded, or — her heart sickened 
at the thought — he would know all the facts. 

Unfortunately, the officers whom she was about to address 
were wild, reckless fellows, who had made their normal con- 
dition worse by liquor. 

“ There’s a rare bird,” cried one, as Vera approached. 

“ I would see Mr. Jasper, the surgeon,” she said modestly, 
with downcast eyes ; ” and crave the favor of being shown 
where I may find him.” 

“ The surgeon, pretty miss ! you have no need of a sur- 
geon. It is a gay young gallant like myself you are looking 
for. ’ ’ 

“ You do me great wrong, sir,” she replied coldly ; 
“ and if there is a man of honor present, he will grant my 
request.” 

” We have no surgeon,” continued the first speaker reck- 
lessly. A soldier’s only business is to die, and to have a 
jovial time while he can. So come, my pretty one, ex- 
change your frowns for smiles.” 

“As you are men,” cried Vera desperately, trembling 
like a leaf, “ have respect for a defenseless girl, and tell me 
where I may find Surgeon Jasper.” 


DARK DA VS. 


19/ 

The instincts of a gentleman still lingered in one of the 
party, and, in response to this appeal, he said soberly, 

“ He is right, miss ; there is no surgeon at the present 
moment in the garrison. Dr. Jasper having been ordered 
away. " 

Then — then — may I see Mr. Saville faltered Veia. 

Saville, Saville,” laughed the first speaker coarsely. 
“ She had him in mind all the time.'' 

In pity for her distress, the second speaker again came to 
her relief, and said, 

“ Lieutenant Saville is not here, and I have heard that he 
was ordered hastily to New York." 

“ Come, my lass o' the hills," struck in the tipsy youth. 
“ The crows have eaten Saville before this. I’ll be to you 
a far better lover." 

“ For shame, Dick, let her alone. Saville will call you 
to bloody account, if he hears of this nonsense." 

“ Things have come to a fine pass," blustered the fellow, 
“ if Fve got to ask Saville’ s permission to speak to a moun- 
tain wench. By Jove 1 I'll kiss her, if I fight a dozen 
Savilles," and he started forward to give the insult. 

Vera, with her old instantaneous quickness, which had 
once surprised Saville, eluded him, sprang into* her skiff, 
and was out in the stream in a moment, while her insulter, 
unsteady from liquor, missed his footing, and fell into the 
water. His companions roared w'ith laughter at his pligh^, 
and ere he could scramble out, sputtering and pro(ap^, 
Vera was half-way across the river. 

Every nerve in the poor girl’s body was. tii^^ling vyitl^ i in- 
dignation and fear, when she reached \\\e sl^ore, She 
scarcely had strength to climb over the l^dls fo the cabin, 
and then fainted across its threshold. 

Old Gula was in sore dismay, but had sense enough to 
(Jarry her to the cool spring, and bathe her face. At 


192 


JV£A/^ TO NATURE'S BEAET. 


last she slowly revived, but was seriously ill for several 
days. 

Still, the bitterness of her mental trouble had been re- 
lieved, for Saville’s absence was accounted for. He had 
been ordered hurriedly away. In her strong trust, she be- 
lieved that there had been no opportunity for a farewell 
visit, and there was no necessity for thinking that he W’as 
either sick, wounded, or dead. Although he was exposed 
to the innumerable risks of a brave man in an active cam- 
paign, her confidence increased that God would spare him 
in answer to her prayers. 

With reviving hope and faith, her strength and vigor re- 
turned ; for, in her case, the spiritual and physical organiza- 
tions were so closely allied that one could not suffer without 
keen sympathy from the other. But in both she was natu- 
rally healthful, having been nurtured in the atmosphere of 
truth, and the bracing air of the mountains. 

Her father, upon her illness, seemed at last somewhat 
conscious of his daughter’s need, and, in his poor way, 
sought to meet it. He waited upon her with unwonted ten- 
derness, and brought the delicacies of wood and stream ; 
but he had lost the power to speak soothing and appreciative 
words. His own disordered mind was tossed on such a sea 
of troubles, that he had no calming thoughts for another. 

Thus, in her sad isolation, Vera was compelled to look 
heavenward, and, in her long hours of weakness, the unseen 
world of faith grew very near and real. She felt sure that 
her mother was watching at her side, and in the night, at 
limes, fancied she saw the dear, familiar form. The impres- 
sion was often so strong, that she would reach out her arms 
with expressions of endearment, or speak her thoughts with 
the freedom of olden time, W'hen sure of loving sympathy. 

Her mother’s favorite text, “Let not your heart be 
troubled,” acquired daily richer and fuller meaning, and the 


Z)^iVA' DA VS. 


93 


ability to trustfully cast all her burdens on her Saviour in- 
creased. 

So, although the strain and nervous excitement of the past 
year had been very great, she slowly but surely rallied back 
into her old, vigorous health. She would need it all in her 
coming desperate struggle for bare existence. ’ 

By the time she had fully recovered, the autumn winds 
were prophesying of winter, and, with a forethought learned 
in the hard school of experience, she realized the necessity 
of making all possible provision. She knew how little her 
lather was to be depended on, and he might grow worse. 
Therefore, as she grew strong, she became busily engaged 
with her old playmates, the squirrels, in hoarding everything 
that could be preserved for coming use. 

As her father could not be induced to join the Continental 
service openly, she persuaded him, as far as she could, to 
resume his old hunting and trapping pursuits. 

It might be a long time before she would see Saville again, 
or before her hope of finding friends and a recognized place 
in society would be realized. So, nothing remained but- the 
patient performance of present duties. 

And yet the dangers resulting from her position, and her 
father s vain effort to hide from all observation, were in- 
creasing. Nothing so attracts attention as unusual efforts to 
shun it, and nothing so piques curiosity as mystery and con- 
cealment. 

Relieved from Saville’ s immediate presence, it was nc< 
long before Molly’s tongue began to wag again, in dark 
hints as to the uncanny character of the inmates of the cabin. 
While such gossip had no weight with the officers, it had 
with certain of the ignorant soldiery, and gradually Vera and 
Gula were acquiring the titles of the. “ white and black 
witches of the Highlands.” If Molly had urged on some 
of the baser sort, over whom she had obtained almost all the 


194 


NEAJi TO NATURE'S HEART. 


power of a gypsy queen, Vera’s homely duties might have 
found tragic interruption ; but a wholesome fear of Saville’s 
vengeance restrained her. And yet Vera, unconsciously, 
was living over a mine which might be fired at any time. 

To the officers, also, Brown, from his seclusion, and the 
fact that no one could account for him. was an object of 
suspicion, and they would be inclined to deal summarily 
with him should any one bring a definite accusation. 

But though wrong-doing in the past, and most unwise 
action now, must cause their legitimate evil results, God 
would not permit his child to suffer beyond her ability to 
endure. 

During the month of October, the beacon fires had often 
flamed, and yet while Vera and her father saw that there was 
unusual stir and preparation in the garrisons, and extraor- 
dinary efforts to obstruct the navigation of the river, no 
attack was made, and they remained in almost total igno- 
rance of the progress of the war. 

At last the exile could endure his anxiety no longer, and 
he determined to find out the condition of affairs ; but, 
with his old characteristic caution, went across the moun- 
tains to an interior village, for the ostensible purpose of 
barter. He had in his mind the inoffensive-appearing old 
man whom he had once before ventured to question, and 
felt that if circumstances favored, he could do so again with- 
out risk. 

He found the aged gardener at work as before, and as 
talkative as ever. But the dismal tale that he told of the 
American defeat on Long Island, of the evacuation of New 
York, of continued retreats, and, worse than all, of the 
second irruption of the British ships into the Hudson, caused 
Mr. Brown’s cheeks, already pale, to grow more ashen. 

“ How is it you don’t know ’bout these things?” asked 
the old man with sudden curiosity. 


DARK DA YS, 


195 


“I live back in the mountains/' was the hasty reply ; 
and the fear- stricken man waited for no further questions, 
but started for the hills, with the one desire to find in them 
some impenetrable recess for concealment. 

At first, he was bent upon leaving the cabin at once ; but 
Vera, with gentle firmness, refused to listen to any of his 
wild plans. She saw clearly that the time had come when 
her judgment and will must be supreme. But he ventured 
less and less abroad, and the impression appeared to grow 
upon him that his dusky corner was the safest place. Here 
he would often remain all day, and sometimes through the 
night also, apparently dreading to move. 

As one of the results of her father’s condition, the task 
of providing food devolved chiefly on Vera ; and the bleak- 
ness of November and the biting cold of winter often chilled 
her weary frame, as she wandered over the hills in quest of 
game. But the chill at heart, the cold, dreary despondency 
which often crept over her while engaged in these un- 
womanly and unseasonable labors, was harder to bear. She 
could not now anticipate the welcome of a gentle and sym- 
pathetic mother on her return. Even when cold and ex- 
hausted, she almost dreaded going back to the cabin where 
her father crouched and cowered, haunted by fears that were 
becoming contagious, and where weird old Gula muttered 
and mumbled unceasingly of her unearthly voices. The 
poor girl herself was growing morbid in her misfortunes and 
unnatural surroundings. 

The hard struggle for mere existence began to blunt her 
finer sensibilities, and she was often too weary for even 
prayer or thought. Like many others, under the increasing 
stress of earthly care, she permitted herself to lose gradually 
her hold upon the divine strength and patience, which her 
mother had ever enjoyed through her confiding and un- 
questioning faith. Not that she entertained doubts of God’s 


196 


JV£AJ? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


ability and willingness to help, or cherished resentful 
thoughts at her lot ; but, in the pressure of daily duties, 
prayer was neglected. She was drifting unconsciously from 
the quiet waters, where faith had kept her spirit moored in 
peace, out upon the restless sea of mere human endeavor 
and dependence. Like many another, she could still pray 
“ Lead me not into temptation, and deliver me from evil 
but for “ daily bread” she turned practically to her traps in 
the thickets, to her fowling-piece, and to the diminishing 
stores that her own hands had gathered. Unfortunately, 
the question of daily bread was the absorbing one, and, as 
we have seen, it did not bring her near the Divine source of 
spiritual largeness and growth. Thus her life began to grow 
hard, material, and devoid of those influences which had 
made her appear to Saville more akin to the supernatural 
world in which she believed, than the tangible one which 
was all to him. 

The poor child was learning to employ bodily fatigue as 
many use narcotic drugs, and sought to escape from her 
desperate loneliness in the oblivion of sleep, whenever her 
tasks permitted. In dreams, at least, she occasionally saw 
her mother's loved face bending over her, with the old ex- 
pression of tenderness ; more frequently Saville' s flute gave 
the musical signal from the rocky height above her grotto, 
and she, in spirit, hastened to the tryst ;^but ever to awake 
and find it only a dream. Although she would sob herself 
to sleep again, she would still hope for the return of the 
vision, that she might once more see his face and hear his 
voice. 

Vera began to realize, in some degree, that she was grow- 
ing narrow, and dwindling toward a mere animal existence ; 
and she shed bitter tears over the truth. She sometimes 
tried to overcome the tendency, and would take down the 
B.blc, or the Plays, after the labors of the day ; but her head 


DARK DA VS. 


197 


would soon droop upon the page, and the pine knots sink 
into ashes, as had her hopes. 

Her father was dreading lest he should become known, 
and compelled to carry his secret into the presence of ques- 
tioning curiosity. With almost terror at the thought, Vera 
began to ask herself, 

“ Am I always to live this life ? Am I to be left here till 
I become little better than the beasts and birds of prey that 
hide in these mountains? Indeed, I envy them ; for they, 
at least, have companions of their own kind.'’ 

She was able to feel her isolation more keenly since she 
had been given a glimpse of the world, and, in her intimacy 
with Saville, had learned to know the sweets of congenial 
society and friendship. 

Though so very young, she was becoming one of earth’s 
weariest pilgrims, and at times she almost felt, when be- 
numbed with cold, like lying down in some wild mountain- 
gorge, and letting the snow drift over her as she sank to 
sleep. If she had believed, with Saville, that it would have 
been a dreamless, eternal sleep, she would undoubtedly 
have yielded to the temptation. 

Thus the winter dragged heavily on, till the sun turned 
from its decline southward, and began to fill the mountains 
with brighter and more genial rays. But she, who had 
always welcomed this change, scarcely heeded it. Perhaps 
the sharp suffering and seemingly untoward events soon to 
come, would be better than the slow, increasing pressure of 
the sordid cares and loneliness of her lot. Immediate and 
pressing dangers might break up the apathy of practical un- 
belief, wherein God becomes a being who must be prayed 
to and served, but ceases to be a helpful, sympathetic friend. 
Anything that would drive her to Him as a refuge would be 
a blessing ; anything that broke the leaden monotony of 
her life, a healthful change. 


198 


JV£AJi TO NATURE’S IIEATT. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“ THE WHITE WITCH OF THE HIGHLANDS.” 

I N the latter part of February, the stores in their little 
cabin ran so low that it was necessary they should be 
replenished by a visit to some country store. But her father, 
from long inaction and brooding, was in his worst mood, 
and it was in vain that Vera besought him to go on the 
errand. At last, in her desperation, she decided one morn- 
ing to go herself. On ascending the hill behind the cabin, 
she saw that the river was covered with smooth ice. She 
went down to the point of land which enabled her to look 
up the river, and through the cold, clear air, the villages of 
New Windsor and Newburgh seemed not far away. Re- 
turning, she took a little of their hoarded money, and, with- 
out a word to her father, started on what was, to her, like 
the voyage of Columbus, a journey into the unknown. Her 
only weapon of defense was a light, strong staff, pointed 
with iron, which would enable her to try the ice, and also 
assist in walking. She kept close to the western shore, so 
that, like a timid hare, she might fly to cover, if she deemed 
it necessary. Though she found the way longer than she 
supposed, and the effort to walk on the smooth ice against 
the wind very fatiguing, she reached in safety the shores of 
New Windsor, where she saw a building whose appearance 
led her to hope that she might there obtain what she wished. 
To her joy the surmise proved correct, and she was saved 
further weary steps. She asked and obtained permission to 


“ THE WHITE WITCH OF THE HIGHLANDS:' 199 

sit down and rest awhile. Many and curious were the 
glances cast upon her by the loungers that always infest such 
places, especially in winter. 

Some tried to engage her in .conversation, but there was 
something in their tones and manner that, though she did 
not understand, she disliked, and, with an innate dignity 
and reserve, which is a true woman’s sure protection unless 
men are equal to brute violence, she silenced them. She 
would have gladly hastened away, had she not felt that rest 
and the warmth of the place were essential for a time be- 
fore starting on the homeward journey with her laden 
basket. 

Among the men present, when she entered, was a knot 
of rough- looking soldiers, who had impressed her most dis- 
agreeably, They had stared at her a few moments, winked 
at each other, and then to her relief, departed. 

As soon as she felt equal to the effort, she started home- 
ward ; but the sun was already declining ; the sky also was 
becoming overcast, and the rising wind betokened a storm. 
By the time she reached Butter Hill, the snowflakes began 
to fly, and not a solitary form was seen on the dreary ex- 
panse of ice, where, in the morning, travelers had appeared 
in the distance. 

Still, this did not trouble her, for she did not dread a 
storm as much as she feared meeting rude fellows coming or 
going from the garrisons below. Her only concern was lest 
the snow might make her progress dangerous, by covering 
the occasional air-holes that almost always occur in the ice 
among the Highlands. 

But, imagine her dismay, when, on passing around the 
point of a mountain, she came upon a group of soldiers, 
apparently lying in wait. With sickening fear, she recog- 
nized in them the ill-favored fellows she had seen in the 
store at New Windsor. 


200 


NEAR TO NATURE S HEART. 


She hesitated, and was about to turn back ; but they, with 
devilish cunning, seemed to give her no heed. 

“ I have naught to do with them, nor they with me,” she 
thought; “and no doubt they will let me pass without a 
word.” 

Indeed, they moved out toward the middle of the river, 
as if intending to pursue their way without regard to her. 
This gave Vera renewed hope, and the chance to keep near 
the shore as she desired. 

When she reached a point where the mountain shelved 
perpendicularly down to the water, rendering its ascent im- 
possible, they turned sharply on her, one shouting brutally, 

“ So ho ! ye're the white witch o’ the mountains, are ye ? 
But the divil himself can’t help ye now, ’les ye fly up the 
rocks. ’ ’ 

Vera gave the precipice a despairing glance : even she 
could not scale it. There was no chance for aught save 
flight ; and, for a few moments, she made desperate efforts 
to escape, once or twice barely eluding a grimy, outstretched 
hand. 

Notwithstanding her wonderfully quick movements, and 
the abrupt turns which she was able to make on the smooth 
ice by the aid of her staff, they were gradually hemming her 
in toward the bluff. A few yards to the south, and near 
the land, she saw a small air-hole with open water, and at 
once formed the desperate purpose to lead her pursuers so 
near it that they would fall in ; or else, if failing in that, to 
find, herself, a refuge in death beneath the ice. She ran to 
its perilous edge, and then, by means of her staff, turned 
short toward the shore. Her nearest pursuer was so intent 
on grasping his, victim, that he did not see the danger in 
time and fell in. 

This created a diversion in favor of Vera, and two of her 
pursuers stopped to help their comrades, but the remaining 


“ THE WHITE WITCH OF THE HIGHLANDST 201 


three were adjured, with oaths and curses, to “ head her off 
up agin the mountain.” 

“ May the divil fly away with hie if I don’t believe she is 
a witch,” cried one of the ruffians. 

Vera had now reached a place where there was a break in 
the precipice facing the river, the rock making a sharp angle, 
and receding from the water a few feet ; and then it made 
another angle and trended away toward the southwest, leav- 
ing an increasingly wide margin between the precipitous 
bluff and the river. Despairing of escape on the ice, Vera 
had the hope that by springing ashore she could make her 
way along this margin, and so up among the hills. 

But the tide was out, and huge cakes of ice were piled 
among the rocks where she attempted to reach the land ; 
slipping on one of these, she fell, and was delayed, seem- 
ingly, a fatal moment. Two of the men sprang ashore south 
of her, thus cutting off escape along the base of the cliffs, 
while one stood on the ice behind her. 

‘‘We’ve got her now!” they cried, with horrid joy; 
“ she’s just druv into a corner o’ the rocks, and must go 
through ’em to get away.” 

‘ ‘ Two on ye keep her there, then, and t’ other come and 
help us git Barney out. Tm afeerd he’ll droon. The 
cussed ice breaks wid us, and he’s gittin’ could and numb- 
loike.” 

Vera gave a swift glance and a sobbing prayer to Heaven, 
and then turned toward the granite rocks that beetled above 
her head, to see if there was the faintest possibility of escape. 
With a thrill of hope, she saw crevices in the inner angle of 
the rock, and from one of these, far above her head, a bush 
was growing. Here was her only chance. Availing herself 
of the moment’s respite given by her pursuers in their solici- 
tude for their half-drowned companion, she planted her long 
staff among the loose stones, and, by its aid, steadied her- 


202 


NEAR TO NAT [/RE'S HEART. 


self up the almost perpendicular rock, till she reached the 
bush. It bore her weight, and seemed like a helping hand. 
Fear lent her wings, and, by the aid of the shrubbery, she 
reached a point not quite so steep, where the angle in the 
precipice turned off toward the river somewhat, and she was 
able to climb with more security and hope. 

All this had transpired in a moment of time, while the 
eyes of the ruffians had been turned toward the one of their 
number struggling in the water. Having pulled him, more 
dead than alive, out upon the ice, they made a rush for 
their victim, when, to their unbounded amazement, they 
saw her, far above their heads, ascending what seemed, 
from their point of view, the perpendicular face of the rock. 
For a moment they could only stare in their wonder. 
Then one of the men whipped out a pistol. 

“ Don’t fire !” cried another, “ for if the divil hain’t 
carryin’ her up, she’ll fall ; an’ if he is, the ball’ll come 
back and kill yerself.” 

Fortunately this sage advice was taken, and, a second 
later, Vera had followed the angle in the rocks to the sum- 
mit of the precipice, and was at least fifty feet above their 
heads. From this point the ascent was easier and safer, 
although still very difficult and dangerous. As every mo- 
ment she mounted higher, scaling places that appeared im- 
passable, a superstitious dread crept over them, and they 
slunk off with muttered curses to the opposite shore of the 
river, leaving the basket where Vera had dropped it. The 
angels that had charge over her, lest she should dash her 
foot against a stone, were, to their besotted minds, evil 
spirits, though certainly less malignant than themselves. 

As she saw them depart, she sat down on a shelf of rock, 
panting and exhausted. Night was near, the sky overcast, 
and the snow whirling through the air. The great mountain 
of Cro’ Nest’’ rose between her and the cabin, while, from 
the wide rugged valley that she must ci'css, came the roar of 


“ THE WHITE WITCH OF THE HIGHLANDS: 203 


the wind in the forest. She thought not of these dangers, 
however, in her unbounded gratitude for what seemed an 
almost miraculous escape. There on the bleak mountain- 
side she knelt, and poured out her heart to God. In answer, 
there came to her a feeling of safety, a sense of being guarded, 
which she never had before. With a distinctness which 
made them seem as if spoken, the inspired words came into 
her mind, “ Fear not thou, for I am with thee : Be not dis- 
mayed ; for I am thy God : I will strengthen thee ; yea, 
I will help thee ; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand 
of my righteousness." 

" Oh !" she cried, stretching out her aims toward heaven, 

Oh that God would take me home to mother now ! Why 
must I descend into this dark and stormy valley ?" 

Again the voice whispered in the depths of her soul, 
“ The Lord is thy keeper : The Lord shall preserve thee 
from all evil : He shall preserve thy soul." " Let not your 
heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid." 

With a feeling of resignation and trust, to which she had 
long been a stranger, she set out on her journey of several 
miles through a rugged and unbroken wilderness. Her 
intimate knowledge of the mountains enabled her to go 
toward her home, even in the gathering darkness, with as 
much directness as the almost impassable region per- 
mitted ; but it was night before she descended the hills that 
sloped toward the cabin. She began to think that her 
strength would fail, and that after all she might perish ; 
but, in her weariness and loneliness, the thought brought 
peace instead of fear. Mechanically she tottered on, 
scarcely conscious from exhaustion, until she reached the 
valley where stood her home. Summoning all her failing 
energies she tried to gain its door, but in vain. The utmost 
limit of endurance had been reached, but, as her last effort, 
before sinking on the ground in unconsciousness she cried, 

“Father! Gula I" 


204 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“the black witch of the highlands."’ 

ERA’S absence had not caused much anxiety to the 



V inmates of the cabin. They were both so wrapped 
up in their own strange fancies that they could think of 
little else, and it was not unusual for her to return from 
hunting expeditions after nightfall. They were so preoccu- 
pied that neither of them noticed that the light fowling-piece 
was in its accustomed place. 

Throughout the entire day, Gula imagined she had been 
hearing voices, and even the winter’s cold did not prevent 
her from leaving the door of her little kitchen open, that 
they might be more distinct. While busy in preparing as 
good a supper for Vera as a very meagre larder permitted, 
she would often go to the door, and listen intently, not for 
the footsteps of the young girl, but for the strange echoes 
that, in her disordered mind, came from her tropical home. 

And she was thus listening, when Vera’s cry reached her. 
In great excitement she said, 

“ Dare, dare, dat a voice sure. P'raps I’se gwine home 
to-night. I’se a coming,’’ and she hobbled down the glen 
as fast as her age permitted, till her feet struck against the 
poor girl’s unconscious body. Stooping down, she felt of 
the unexpected obstacle, and then, in a shrill scream, called, 

“ Mas’r Brown, come quick ! Missy Vera ’pears like 
she’s dead.’’ 

The father hastened to the spot, and between them they 
bore her into the cabin. 


•• THE BLACK WITCH OF THE HIGHLANDS:' 205 

“ Is she dead?” asked the man in a husky whisper. 

“ Dunno ; 'allers been afeard she’d git home afore me. 
De strong stuff in dis bottle did her mudder good ; I’ll put 
a little in her mouf,” and Gula moistened Vera’s lips with 
the remnant of the brandy, and was comforted by seeing the 
spasmodic effort to swallow. 

“ She was a’ most home,” soliloquized Gula ; “ and it’s 
orful cruel in me to bring her back ; but I couldn’t let her 
go afore me.” 

‘‘ O God ! if there is a God ! save my child !” cried the 
father in agony. “ What have I become, to leave her so 
exposed ?” and he bent over her in remorseful tenor. 

Slowly Vera revived to consciousness, and was at last able 
to give them a smile of recognition. 

“ Where have you been ? What has happened ?” asked 
her father eagerly. 

She shuddered, shook her head, and said faintly, ” Not 
now. I can’t tell you now.” 

At Gula’s urgent request, she took a little food and some 
more of the brandy, and then sank into a deep sleep, which 
lasted until the sun was shining into the casement. On 
awaking, she found her father watching her with the most 
intense anxiety. In the hope of arousing him from his 
morbid condition, she told him the truth, and the last rem- 
nants of the man and parent flashed up in his soul. 

His face became ashen in its hue, and again he exclaimed 
in agony, “ Great God 1 what have I become ?” 

Then he seized his rifle, and started for the scene of Vera’s 
peril, with the half-crazed hope of finding her assailants still 
there. After a time he returned with Vera’s basket, and 
commenced restlessly pacing the cabin floor, muttering deep 
curses on the caitiffs who were beyond the reach of his 
vengeance. 

“ Father,” said Vera piteously, “ won’t you lake care of 


2o6 


NEAH TO NATURE'S HEART 


us ? won’ t you be your old self, as I remember you when 
a little child ? It may be long before I am able to go out 
again, and I ought not to go at all.” 

“ I will, my child, I will,” he replied. “ Would to God 
I had never been born !” 

‘ ‘ O father ! be a brave man. Do as Mr. Saville wished, 
and all will yet be well.” 

‘‘ I will, my child ; 1 will remove you and Gula to a 
place of safety, and then join the army.” 

” Act now, father, act at once.” 

“ I will — soon.” 

For a few days he made desperate efforts to throw off the 
incubus that was crushing body and mind, and supplied the 
household with abundance of game. 

After a few days of perfect rest, Vera’s healthful frame 
quite recovered from its terrible strain ; but there remained 
in her eyes a troubled, frightened expression. Her mind 
was constantly dwelling on the strange epithet that the 
ruffians had applied to her. Why did they call her the 
” white witch of the Highlands ?” and what did they mean 
by this term ? A vague sense of danger oppressed her, and 
a fear lest their seclusion was causing people to imagine 
evil concerning them. 

This surmise was not long in being verified, for spring 
had scarcely opened, before an officer with a squad of men 
marched to their door one morning. 

” I wish to see a man named Brown,” was the prompt 
request. 

j Nerving himself for an ordeal that was terrible, her father 
came to the door, and said haughtily, 

“ I am he.” 

‘‘lam directed, sir, to inform you that you are suspected 
of disloyalty to the American cause, and of being in the 
employ of the enemy. As there are no definite charges 


“ THE BLACK WITCH OF THE HIGHLANDS:' 207 

against you, and as Mr. Saville once spoke in your favor, 
you are not to be arrested on this occasion. But your pres- 
ence is no longer desired in the vicinity of the forts, and it 
is requested that you leave this region before the campaign 
opens. If after two weeks you are here and can give no 
satisfactory account of yourself, you will be arrested and put 
in confinement.’’ 

The terrified man could scarcely retain sufficient com- 
posure to bow in silent acquiescence ; but, as the officer 
was turning away, Vera exclaimed, 

“ Indeed, sir, we are loyal. You do my father injustice.” 

“ Let him be prompt in proving it then,” was the stern 
response ; then came the word of command, “ Right about 
face ; march,” and they were gone. 

Vera thought that she recognized among the soldiers the 
malignant face of the wretch who had narrowly escaped 
drowning in his reckless pursuit of her upon the ice. She 
was right. At first, the ruffians had kept quiet, fearing lest 
Vera should report their conduct, and they be severely dealt 
with. But the man in question vowed vengeance, and was 
so besotted in his egotism and depravity as to feel that he 
had good cause to punish one who, in escaping his brutality, 
had involved him in great peril. 

He was one of Captain Molly’s satellites, and she had 
soon beguiled from him the story, but embellished and 
changed somewhat to suit their interests. The worst of 
villains do not like to portray themselves in their true colors. 

“She is a witch, indade,” concluded the irate ruffian; 
“ for nary a one that the divil didn’t help could have walked 
right up straight rocks. But, by the holy poker. I’ll pay 
her off for that drooning she guv me.” 

The story of Vera’s scaling the precipice spread rapidly 
among the ignorant and superstitious members of the garri- 
son, over whom Molly ruled, and became positive proof 


2o8 


TO A^ATUTE'S HEART. 


that the innocent maiden, as well as old Gula, was in close 
league with the Evil One. 

“ Let us go over and roast them out some day,'' was a 
proposal often made, and once or twice in danger of being 
carried out ; for the discipline of the fort was not severe, 
and the men were often permitted to be absent. 

But Molly was shrewd enough to counsel prudence. 
Larry had cautioned her that Saville was the “ very divil 
himself” when angry; and she remembered his threat. 
Though she had not seen or heard anything of him lor a 
long time, he might return. Besides, Molly, although 
capable of any amount of wicked gossip, had too much 
humanity to face its consequences. She liked to scatter 
firebrands and arrows recklessly, but did not enjoy seeing 
the wounds and suffering ; and there was woman enough in 
her nature to shrink from the deeds of cruelty and violence 
which she foresaw would occur, did the vindictive Barney 
lead a band of kindred spirits against the cabin. So she 
tried to satisfy his revenge by inducing him to throw out 
hints that “ Brown was a Tory, a-watchin’ the garrisons.” 
This story the officers took up promptly, and Barney w^ 
asked "for <iefinite proof. But Molly had told him not to 
say anything with certainty, but to abound in suspicions ; 
so the authorities concluded that, as there had been consid- 
erable doubt about the man, they would compel him either 
to join the service, or to remove from a region where, if he 
were so inclined, he could be very useful to the enemy. 
Thus, the evil consequences, which even the dead wife had 
foreseen, occurred, and worse dangers threatened. 

As the officer departed with his squad, Vera turned to her 
father with the purpose of entreating him to follow at once, 
and enlist in the army. But, after one glance, all hope 
died. It almost appeared as if he were shrinking and 
shriveling away. He tottered back to his dusky corner, as 


“ THE BLACK WITCH OF THE HIGHLANDS:' 209 

seemingly scarce able to walk. In a trembling whisper, he 
said, 

“ Vera, we must fly at once.’^ 

“Fly where?” she answered desperately. “Are we 
birds, that we can take wing in a moment, and live without 
shelter? O God ! is Thy mercy clean gone forever?” 

“ There isn’t any God,” said her father with sudden and 
vindictive passion ; “ there is only a devil. Witness my 
wife's grave yonder ; witness your unmerited suffering ; 
and, chief of all, witness myself. I dare not live — I dare 
not die. I have but one vile impulse, and that is to hide ; 
and hide I will, where no human eye shall see me again. 
I know of a wild gorge in these mountains that I believe 
untrodden by any foot save mine. Before >our mother 
died, I built a hut there for a refuge, if the worst came to 
the worst. Last fall I repaired it, and made it stronger. 
No one knows of its existence, for this is the first that I have 
spoken of it. Come, we will go at once.” 

Vera sank into a chair, and sobbed as if her heart would 
break. As he saw her grief, he relented somewhat, and 
said, 

“ Well, we will not go till' to-morrow.' They gave us a 
little time.” 

“ If we are to go, let us go at once,” said Vera despair- 
ingly. “ But is there no way out of this darkness, no es- 
cape from this terrible isolation which is destroying us all ? 
I fear I shall go mad myself.” 

“ No,” said her father, with the gloom of the most hope- 
less fatalism in his tone and manner ; “ there is no escape, 
and there is darkness all the way oii forever more. You are 
in the grip of the same awful destiny as myself. I am mad, 
and the worst of it is, I know that I am. I can see my 
mad self, and can see my former and nobler self when I was 
sane, and all day and all night I sit and compare the two. 


210 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


I expect you will become like me, for I have been a curse to 
myself and all bound to me. But I will go where I can 
never see another soul, and the curse will die out with us." 

“ But, father, have you no pity for me ?" 

“ Pity ! ^ pity you from the bottom of my heait. Don’t 

I know that we are both in hell ? I shall pity you forever, 
but what good will that do 

“ Oh, hush I” said Vera, shuddering. “ Say no more." 

Until late that night, she prayed and questioned God as 
to her duty. Would it not be better to go to the com- 
mander of the garrison, and, throwing herself on his mercy, 
declare that her father was no longer responsible for his 
actions ? And yet each time she had sought to make her 
way alone out into the world, she had been met by experi- 
ences that caused her womanly nature to shrink with inex- 
pressible fear. 

“ Is there only one true, kind man in the world ?" she 
groaned in bitterness. 

At last, she concluded that her father, in his present 
mood, would not remain near the dwellings of others ; and 
that, if she tried to compel him to do so, he would wander 
off by himself, and perish in the forest. She also saw the 
difficulty of accounting for his condition of mind, for, as he 
said, he was bo.th sane and insane. It would become evi- 
dent to all that his gloom, fear, and remorse had their dark 
source in guilt of some kind. He would not explain ; she 
could not ; and thus mystery and her twin sister, suspicion, 
would ever follow them with pointing fingers, till even she 
might be glad to hide in the depths of the mountains. 

She recalled her mother’s words in regard to her father : 
“You will have to be his guardian and protector more truly 
than he yours. Be very tender and patient with him for 
my sake." 

“ I will go with him to his mountain-gorge," concluded 


“ THE BLACK WITCH OF THE HIGHLANDS/' 2il 

she, ‘ ‘ although it is the same as being buried alive. Mr. 
Saville will never find me there, and I have now, in sad 
truth, lost my only friend.” 

Again a comforting and reassuring voice spoke in the 
depths of her soul, ” Commit thy w’ay unto the Lord ; trust 
also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass.” 

There sprang up a sudden hopefulness within her heart, 
that God, in His own time and way, would break down the 
barriers that rose between them and their own kind, and 
that He would guide Saville to their hidden retreat. An 
impression, which soon became a conviction, that it would 
be best and safest to leave all to Him, brought rest to her 
mind, and she slept until her father summoned her in the 
morning. 

After an early meal, they made up two packages, contain- 
ing tools, bedding, some food, and cooking utensils, and 
taking their guns, started for the secluded hut, which, after 
all, was not so distant as it was inaccessible, and apart from 
all the mountain roads and paths. It was their plan to 
spend two or three days in repairing and putting it in the 
best condition possible, before removing thither old Gula 
and the household furniture. 

But, in their absence, the elements of evil were at work, 
and poor, pagan Gula had another experience with Chris- 
tians, upon whose profane lips was continually the name of 
the God whom she had learned to associate with deeds of 
fiendish cruelty. 

The ruffian, Barney, had accompanied the officer, and 
heard the order which would soon make the little cabin 
tenantless. But this did not satisfy his malignant spirit ; 
and so, one afternoon, when heated with liquor, he pro- 
posed to a few kindred villains that they should go and hurry 
the departure of the witches. By reason of their super- 
stitious fears, the others were rather reluctant ; but he stimu- 


212 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


Jated them up to the reckless point by fiery potations from a 
stolen bottle of rum. They doubted Captain Molly’s ac- 
quiescence in their action, and so did not inform her ; but, 
on one pretext or another, obtained a brief leave of absence 
from their. officers. 

It was quite late in the afternoon when they reached the 
vicinity of the cabin. They approached warily, for Brown 
had the reputation of being savage and dangerous. At last 
they made a rush for the two doors, having already had ex- 
perience of Vera’s quickness in flight. But, to their sur- 
prise, not a soul was to be seen. They looked cautiously 
in every place where one could be concealed in the main 
room and kitchen, with their weapons ready, but there was 
no trace of their victims. Then Barney and two others of 
the most reckless of the gang went up the covered way to 
Vera’s little room ; and beastly satyrs of Grecian myth, in 
the grotto of a nymph, could not have appeared more hide- 
ous and devilish than these caitiffs in that refuge of maidenly 
purity and beauty. Again, in after days, with a gratitude 
beyond words, Vera thanked God that she was absent. Her 
filial loyalty to her father had brought unspeakable reward. 

The ruffians were now convinced that the occupants of 
the cabin had fled, and with sacrilegious hands they de- 
stroyed, pillaged, and defaced, till their attention was diverted 
by a loud shout from one of their number who had ascended 
the ladder to peer into the little loft. Here he caught a 
glimpse of Gula, cowering in the remotest corner, and was 
now, in brutal glee, dragging her down to his companions, 
who with oaths and imprecations gathered around. 

The aged negress, speechless and paralyzed with terror, 
was as limp and unresisting in their hands as if dead ; turn- 
ing, as the only evidence of life, her wild, horror-dilated 
eyes from one to another of her persecutors, who were to 
her so many torturing fiends. 


“ THE BLACK WITCH OF THE HIGHLANDSH 213 

“ Where is the other she-divil ? where is the white witch 
o’ the Highlands ?” demanded Barney. “Speak, or we’ll 
make ye swallow coals o’ fire.” 

But Gula’s unearthly stare was his only answer. 

“ Tie her to the tree there, or the divil may carry her off 
in spite o’ us and they hustled the poor creature out, 
and did his bidding, Gula making no resistance, and utter- 
ing not a sound. 

“ Now take what ye want, and thin set fire to that diviPs 
nest o^ witches,” continued Barney, who, by common con- 
sent, was leader in the outrage. 

Gula’s eyes dilated with increasing terror, a^ she saw the 
cabin speedily wrapped in flames. Then the demons gath- 
ered round her, and Barney commenced, 

“ Now, ye ould black hag o’ Satan, tell me where the 
white witch is a-hidin’, or I’ll roast the flesh off yer bones.” 

But Gula only turned upon him her horror-stricken stare. 

He seized a firebrand, and held it scorchingly near her 
hand. She writhed, but would not speak. 

“ Here, boys, git some dhry sticks, and put ’em around 
her feet. Ye’ll see how blue she 11 burn. ” 

“ Hold on, Barney,” said the others ; “ don’t let us go 
too far. Her looks’ll haunt us all our days now. ” 

With loud curses on their cowardice, the drunken wretch 
began to carry out his fiendish cruelty himself. 

Gula at last seemed to realize that she might be near to 
death, which to her meant return to kindred and rude 
regality in her far-away home, and she suddenly broke the 
silence, thus far maintained, by a weird, shrill cry of ecstasy, 

“ De voices, de voices ! I’se hear you plain. I’se 
a-comin’ now, sure.” 

The ruffians started back aghast. 

“ What voices ?” demanded Barney. 

A piercing shriek from the hill west of them was the an- 


214 


NEAR TO NAT C/RE’S HEART. 


swer. Then the report of a rifle rang out, and Barney fell 
dead at his victim’s feet, with a bullet through his cruel 
heart. 

His companions turned in precipitate flight, but another 
yelled with pain as the contents of Vera’s gun reached them. 

Marking the course of their flight with blood, they reached 
their boat half dead from fright and bruises, and, crossing 
to the garrison, told a terrible story of Tory outrage. A 
strong party was sent over immediately to arrest Brown and 
the “ Tory horde” that was declared to be with him ; but 
nothing was found save the smoking embers of the cabin, 
and the dead body of the ruffian Barney, which was brought 
over to the island and buried. 

From what he saw, however, the officer in charge of the 
expedition suspected that there might be two sides to the 
story, as Barney and his companions were known to belong 
to that human scum which always exists in every army. 
Beyond some effort made to discover whether Brown still 
frequented his old haunts, nothing further was done, and 
the affair was soon forgotten in the excitement of the open- 
ing campaign. 



Barney Fell Dead at his Victim’s Feet. 








A DIRGE ENDING JOYOUSLY. 


215 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A DIRGE ENDING JOYOUSLY. 

O UR Story now passes over an interval of several months. 

The autumn winds of early September were again 
prophesying of winter among the Highlands ; but only in 
plaintive suggestion, for summer yet lingered in their mild 
breath. 

As the sun was sinking low in the west, on a certain after- 
noon, a form, that could scarcely be recognized as that of 
Vera, were it not for the old wealth of golden hair — but 
uncovered now by the jaunty plumage of the snowy heron 
— might have been seen stealing through the defiles of the 
hills toward the river. A painful timidity characterized her 
movements, and she seemed to fear her own shadow. There 
were traces of suffering and almost famine on her sunburnt 
face, and in her deep blue eyes an expression akin to that 
of some helpless animal that had been hunted almost to the 
death. Her dress was in tatters, and would not much longer 
conceal her thin form. Instead of shoes, rudely constructed 
sandals of buckskin protected her feet. Her frame appeared 
shrunken and somewhat feeble, and yet, as if impelled by a 
powerful motive, she made her way rapidly, although fur- 
tively, along a path which no one save herself could follow. 

As she reached the vicinity of her old home, her approach 
became more cautious and stealthy. She flitted, like some 
timid creature of the forest, from cover to cover, till she 
could look out unperceived on the little glen made dear by 
so many memories. 


2i6 


ATE A/? TO NATURE^ S HEART 


The first object that her eyes dwelt on was the grave of 
her mother, and she seemed to dread lest, among the sad 
changes occurring, it might also have disappeared. But 
the mound was untrampled, and the flowers she had planted 
near were still growing. As the glen seemed as lonely as 
her own life, she ventured from the thicket to the shade of 
the elm, where rose the grassy mound. A visit to this grave 
had become the poor child’s best earthly solace, and the 
nearest approach to comforting companionship within her 
reach. There was no one in her dreary home to whom she 
could speak of the sorrows that were crushing out hope and 
life ; but here she could imagine, at least, that her mother 
listened to her as in the past. 

Becoming satisfied that she was alone in the sacred place, 
her furtive, apprehensive manner passed away, and she gave 
herself wholly to the tender memories naturally inspired. 
Leaning her head on the grave, as she had upon her 
mother’s bosom when a child, she spoke of past scenes in 
tones that would have touched the most callous. Her sen- 
tences were fragmentary, mere indices of passing thoughts. 
From them it would seem that her hope of meeting Saville 
again had almost perished, but that her recollection of his 
kindness was of such a character as to be in harmony with 
the sacred memories of her mother. 

At last, with a weary sigh, she saw, from the deepening 
shadows in the glen, that night must be near. She clasped 
the cold earth of the mound in close embrace. She was in- 
deed orphaned and alone, when the pressure of her heart 
against a grass-grown grave could give more comfort than 
aught else. 

When about to rise, she heard footsteps, and she hastily 
stole into the thicket from which she had first issued, and 
which would cover her flight back to the hills. But, though 
almost fainting with alarm — such had become her weakness 


A DIRGE ENDING JOYOUSLY, 


217 


of mind and body — a faint hope stayed her fleet steps till 
she could obtain one glimpse of the intruder. 

There was something in the distant outline of the tall form 
that was strangely familiar. But, as the stranger’s rapid 
advance revealed his face, she sank upon the ground over- 
whelmed with her feelings. It was, indeed, the friend and 
brother whom she had mourned as lost, and he was appar- 
ently as unchanged as on the day she last saw him. Was 
his presence actual, or was it merely a vision of her over- 
wrought and morbid mind ? She scarcely dared to move or 
breathe, and feared lest the wild throbbing of her heart 
would break the illusion. 

And yet he was so real, he could not be a phantom ; his 
step was not ghost-like, but struck the ground firmly. 

Now she saw the expression of his face — the perplexity — 
the alarm, the trouble, and distress depicted there — as the 
desolation of the glen became apparent. He went to the 
stone step that had led to the threshold of the cabin, and 
peered into the charred ruins, as if he dreaded discovering 
there traces of its inmates. He next ascended hurriedly to 
the place where Vera’s grotto-like apartment had been, but 
the scrutiny of the ashes gave no confirmation of the fear 
that apparently had risen in his mind. 

He took off his hat, and passed his hand across his brow 
and eyes, as if all were to him a vision which he would 
gladly dispel. He looked up and down the glen till his 
eye rested on the elm under which was the grave, and he 
approached it rapidly, as if hoping to find there something 
that would lead to the discovery of those he sought. 

“ She must be living,” he said aloud, “ for here are the 
proofs of her care and taste. Indeed, from the marks upon 
the grass, I should think that some one had been here 
to-day.” 

Again he looked up and down the glen, in the hope of 


2i8 


ATEAJ? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


seeing something or some one that could explain the mys- 
tery. The poor girl, who was but a few feet away, seemed 
under a strange paralysis. She tried to speak, but, as if 
dreaming in very truth, though her lips moved, there was 
no sound. 

But, as Saville sat down upon a rock, and, taking out 
his flute, commenced playing the same dirge which once 
before had summoned her to him and kept her heart from 
breaking, the stony spell that bound her was broken. Tears 
rushed to her eyes. 

“ ‘ I know a bank,' " she faltered ; then, springing from 
her concealment, she knelt at his feet, as one might do who 
sought deliverance from some pressing danger. 

“Vera!" he exclaimed, raising her up. “My friend, 
my little sister ! what has happened What has changed 
you so ?’ ’ 

But, for some moments, her tears and sobs were his only 
answer. He gently seated her on a rock beside him, and 
held her hand, while stroking her head in gentle caresses, 
accompanied by equally tender and soothing words. 

“ My poor little sister, it is plain that much has happened, 
and that you have suffered deeply, since I saw you last." 

“ But thank God, thank God ! you are not dead — you 
have not forgotten me," she was able at last to say brokenly. 

“You may indeed take all the comfort you can out of 
these facts," he replied cheeringly. “ I never had a better 
prospect of living, and there was never less danger of my 
forgetting you. So cease your trembling, little one, and 
dry your tears. I am again stationed at Fort Montgomery, 
and can see you often, as in old times. Now tell me what 
has happened— no, first tell me where you live, for it is 
almost night, and we can talk on our way thither." 

“Oh 1" exclaimed Vera, “ in the joy of seeing you, I 
have forgotten all else. The wretched Tittle hut, which I 


A DIRGE ENDING JOYOUSLY. 


219 


cannot call home, is miles away. You can’t go with me 
there. The path is too rough and tangled for aught save a 1 
mere creature of the forest, as I have become.” 

Then, for the first time conscious of her tattered and for- 
lorn dress, and her bare and brier-torn ankles, she turned 
away with a burning blush, and said, in a low tone, 

“ I am glad night is near, that its darkness may cover 
me. I wonder at your kindness, for I looked into a mirror- 
ing pool on my way hither, and saw my poor, miserable 
self as you now see me. What must I seem to you, who 
have seen the best of the world ?” 

“Vera,” said Saville gravely, “did not your mother, 
when living, hope that I might become your friend ?” 

“ Yes,” said Vera, with fast-falling tears. 

“ That hope has been fulfilled ; but, were I only a 
casual stranger, what else could I feel for you, in this place, 
and by this grave, but the deepest sympathy ? You may 
trust me then without fear or embarrassment, because of 
your ragged dress and bruised feet, which are to me the 
touching proofs of your misfortunes. There are no stronger 
claims than those of humanity, and unconsciously you assert 
these in a way to make them most sacred. I feel that you 
are committed to my charge, and that nature and all-con- 
trolling destiny constitute me your brother and guardian. 
So, rest assured, you shall lean upon my arm all the way to 
your mountain hiding-place, which, I fear, is little better 
than the nests of the birds, which are open to the sky.” 

“ But the way is longer than you think.” 

“ Will it seem shorter to you without me? All the more 
reason for my going. Come, little sister ; I have a will of 
my own,” and he drew her hand within his arm. 

“ I can take the more open paths, now that you are with 
me,” she said, with sudden gladness in her tone. 

“ Yes, any you like. I will take care of }ou.” 


2 20 


ATEAJ? TO NATURE'S HEART, 


With a sigh of intense relief, she exclaimed, “ Oh ! what 
a comfort it is not to be oppressed with fear every moment. 
Constant dread was becoming a habit of my mind, as it is 
with father. There are such cruel and terrible men in the 
world ; and we are so helpless, and are the objects of so 
much suspicion, that concealment and flight have become 
our only safety ]’ and, with the simplicity of a child, she 
told him of her own and Gula’s experience, and the burn- 
ing of the cabin. 

“ When we saw the smoke,” she said, we thought it 
had caught fire by accident, and we ran, in the hope of 
saving something. But Gula’s cry, and the horrible men’s 
rough voices, soon led us to fear the worst I was afraid, 
at first, that father would leave old Gula to her fate, for often 
he is so strangely timid. But, for a few moments, he seemed 
like an enraged lion. He shot the leading villain, and then, 
snatching my gun, fired again. Only their rapid flight kept 
him from attacking them single-handed. He seemed to 
think they were the same ruffians that tried to catch me ; 
and, from what old Gula said afterward, I am sure they 
were. Ever since, I have lived in a state of terror lest they 
should spring out upon me. ’ ’ 

Her tragic story was often interrupted by Saville’s excla- 
mations of pity and anger ; and when she described her 
peril upon the ice, and in climbing the precipice, she felt his 
arm tremble beneath her hand. 

“You shall be amply revenged,’’ he said in a deep tone, 
as she concluded. 

“ Oh, no,’’ she cried pleadingly ; “ any effort to avenge 
me would only add to my pain and fear. Please make 
these dreadful men understand that father is loyal, and that 
Gula and I are not witches. How came they ever to imag- 
ine such a thing about two such inoffei^sive creatures 

“ That’s the cursed quality of superstition,” he muttered. 


A DIRGE ENDING JOYOUSLY. 


221 


“ The less reason and cause, the more monstrous and 
bigoted the belief/' 

“You can never know all I have suffered of late," she 
said, finding much comfort in his strongly manifested sym- 
pathy. “ We often do not have enough to eat, and I was 
beginning to hope I should die before winter came. Father 
is more gloomy and taciturn than ever, and I often find him 
looking at me with a strange pity and almost horror in his 
eyes, as if he were murdering me and could not help it. 
His looks haunt me. Old Gula, too, is growing more 
strange, and mumbles unceasingly of her unearthly voices. 
Still I could endure all this, were it not for my constant and 
unspeakable fear lest those wicked men find our hiding- 
place, or spring out at me when I am away alone among the 
mountains. When I heard your step this evening, I came 
near flying, without looking back (God saved me from that 
at least). I even wake out of my sleep,, and imagine I hear 
them coming with their dreadful oaths. Are you sure you 
can keep them away V' 

“ Yes, Vera, sure. Poor child ! I did not dream it pos- 
sible that misfortune and wrong could so single you out. ” 

“ What you say,” she continued, in an awed, frightened 
tone, “ leads me to speak of the worst trouble of all. 
Mother’s Bible was burned in the cabin, as was nearly every- 
thing else. I have tried to remember its teachings, but of 
late they seemed slipping from my mind. Indeed, I ap- 
peared sometimes to be forgetting everything. I felt as if I 
were dwindling to nothing in body and mind, and a great 
fear has at times chilled my heart lest death should be just 
becoming nothing. When we first came to our hiding- 
place, I felt that it was very doubtful whether I should ever 
see you or any one else again, and 1 gave up almost all 
hope of happiness in this life. But, while the world was so 
dark, the door of heaven seemed wide open, and mother 


222 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


Standing in its light, waiting for me. For a long time this 
beautiful vision was ever before me, and I felt like a traveler 
who is going toward his home-light. But at last the open 
door, with its streaming rays, began to recede, and mother’s 
form to grow dim ; and now they have gone so far away 
that they seem like that faint star just above yonder moun- 
tain. What does it mean ? Has God forgotten me ? Is 
He in truth taking mother far away into heaven, and am I 
becoming so much like the poor, timid little creatures of 
the woods, that I shall at last die like them, and become 
nothing ? I wish you could explain it all to me.” 

“ I can, my poor little friend, very readily. When one 
has been long under the influence of trouble and solitude, 
and especially when there has been a lack of nutritious food, 
the mind becomes morbid, and full of unnatural fancies, 
just as the night is full of strange, monstrous shadows, which 
all disappear when the sun rises. The sun has risen for 
you, and all these strange shadows upon your mind will 
soon pass away.” 

“ But are you sure that God never forgets any of His 
children, though they are weak and insignificant ? It is 
this fear that troubles me most.” 

” Well, Vera, to tell you a truth, which you would have 
suspected long ago, if you had not been so innocent, I do 
not know much about God. I think you had better try to 
overcome all these morbid fancies, of which you have 
spoken, in a new and hopeful interest in your present life. I 
promise that I shall never forget you, and will try to make it 
certain that you shall never be so exposed to misfortune again. ” 

At first, Vera gave him a troubled, startled look, and was 
silent for some moments. Then he felt her hand tightening 
in its grasp upon his arm, as if the thought were in her 
mind, ” If God is failing me, I must cling the closer to this 
friend, who is so near and sympathetic.” 


A DIRGE ENDING JOYOUSLY. 


223 


To divert her mind, he told her of his experiences during 
his long absence, and how he had written to her, and had 
hoped that she knew about his life elsewhere, while he re- 
mained ignorant of hers. He explained how very uncertain 
letters were to arrive, even along the regular lines of travel. 
And yet his heart reproached him that he had, in some de- 
gree, forgotten her in his manifold duties and excitements, 
and that he had not made greater effort to learn of her wel- 
fare, and provide for her safety. 

They at last reached a point where they must leave the 
comparatively open path for one that was narrow, precip- 
itous, and often, to his eye, entirely blocked by rocks and 
tangled undergrowth. But she picked out a way for him, 
where, in the darkness, none appeared. Toward the last, 
however, her movements became slow and feeble. 

“ Let us rest awhile,” he said ; “ you are becoming too 
wearied to stand, almost.'* 

“ 1 am sorry to say, it is more than weariness, Mr. Saville. 
I have scarcely tasted food to-day ; and the worst of it is, 
I fear that we shall have little, if anything, to offer you in 
the way of supper. I cannot tell you how it troubles me.” 

“ And are you forgetting your own pangs of hunger and 
consequent weakness, in the fear that you may not have a 
supper for one who dined heartily a few hours ago?” he 
asked, taking her hand. 

“ But I am accustomed to being hungry, and you are 
not. ” 

“ My poor little friend, I. can scarcely realize it all. If 
you could spread a banquet before me, my hear^ woyld b§ 
too lull to permit me to think of eating to?r^igl[if. *'■ .^nd fhe 
thought passed through his mir^d, ‘ ‘ tj^i^ rqaideq and 
my bigoted, selfish wife belong fo the sarqe >yorld and 
race?” 

He was naturally generous and sympathetic, and his heart 


224 


JVEAH TO NATURE'S HEART. 


overflowed with pity and tenderness for the lonely giil, whose 
thoughts had constantly followed him, while he had partially 
.forgotten her. 

He now insisted on her pointing out the way ; and going 
before, he lifted her down the rocks and steep places. 

“It is so strange to be petted and taken care of,"' she 
said, with a low laugh, “ that it must be all a dream.*' 

“ Thanks for that laugh," he cried ; “it is the first I 
have heard from you, but I shall be much mistaken if it is 
the last. If I can carry out my will, this is your last dark, 
miserable day. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ This day is no longer dark and miserable, ' ' she said 
promptly. 

“ How is that?" he asked. “ It is night, and you are 
both hungry and weary." 

“ But comforted and happy," she added. “ The only 
ache that I cannot endure is the heart-ache, and your com- 
ing has cured that." 

Having at last descended into the wdld, secluded valley, 
they were not long in reaching what Vera had called with 
truth “ a wretched little hut." 


GULA\HEARS A VERITABLE VOICE, 


225 


CHAPTER XX. 

GULA HEARS A VERITABLE VOICE. 

W HEN Vera told Saville that they were near the little 
cabin, he asked why no light appeared. 

“ We live literally in darkness much of the time," she re- 
plied ; “for father will not permit a light, lest its rays reveal 
our hiding-place ; and I have been so timid, also, that I 
was well content to .submit. Please wait here, and I will 
prepare father for the meeting." 

“ Is it possible," he thought, scanning the place by the 
light of the rising moon, “ that this poor little hovel has 
been her only shelter for long months ? Even our soldiers' 
huts are better than this." 

Vera noiselessly raised the latch, saying, at the same time, 
in a quiet tone, “ It is I, father." 

“ I am very glad you have returned, for I was beginning 
to surmise horrible things. What has kept you ?" 

“ I met an old friend." 

“ Met an old friend ! Who ?" 

“ Your friend as truly as mine. Can you not think who 
he is 

“ Has Mr. Saville returned, and is he indeed friendly?" 
he asked eagerly. 

“ He is more friendly than ever ; he shall speak for him- 
self. Mr. Saville !" 

“ O Vera 1 you have not brought him to this, our only 
refuge?" cried her father in great agitation. “I fear evil 
will come of it." 


226 


NEAR TO NATURE* S HEART. 


“ No, Mr. Brown,'' said Saville, cordially taking his 
hand ; “ good and only good shall come of it. I am here 
as a friend to you both. Besides, I bring you cheering 
tidings, sir. We are making good our Declaration of Inde- 
pendence, which you heard over a year ago, and have now 
excellent prospects of final victory." 

The fear haunted man drew a long breath, and then said, 
“ The deed has now been done, and, since you are here, 
we will treat you with the best courtesy we can; but I had 
hoped no living soul would ever discover this retreat." 

" God has in mercy willed it otherwise, father." 

" God forsooth !" he responded bitterly. " If I could 
hide forever from Him, I might hope for a little respite." 

“ We have not a chair to offer you,", he continued, turn- 
ing to Saville. " Will you accept of this rude bench r" 

" I shall be most content in faring as you do," answered 
Saville, in the frank, cordial manner which always gives con- 
fidence. " And now, I pray you, sir, sit down with me, 
while I tell you of the progress of the war. Vera has re- 
lated enough of your experience to fill me with the deepest 
sympathy for your misfortunes. At the same lime, I clearly 
foresee brighter days in store for you both." 

Before the exile was aware, Saville held him completely 
absorbed by his graphic descriptions of the battles that had 
occurred during his long absence. Vera, in the mean time, 
disappeared, and nothing was seen of old Gula. 

At last the door of the hut was opened from without, and 
Vera called, " Come, Mr. Saville, to my banquet." 

" Banquet !" he said, laughing. “ If you and Gula have 
prepared a banquet to-night, I shall be ready, also, to be- 
lieve you are witches, or good fairies, rather." 

" Oh, I am so glad !" she exclaimed. “ Everything 
has turned out better than I expected. Father, come with us. ’ ' 

To her surprise and joy, he who had seemed hopelessly 


GULA HEARS A VERITABLE VOICE. 


227 


beyond even the desire of seeing or speaking to a fellow 
creature again, rose hesitatingly, and followed them. 

Taking Saville's hand, with the freedom of a child, she 
led him to a grassy plot behind the cabin, where, in the 
moonlight, stood a rude table. 

“ I much feared,'’ she said, “ that we should have noth- 
ing to offer you to-night. As I told you once before, we 
are fed as the ravens are. I do not know whether they ever 
go supperless to bed, but we do sometimes. To-night, 
however, in honor of your coming, two young partridges 
considerately put their heads into my snares, and there they 
are awaiting you.” 

“ Have you been out in the forest after them since your 
return ?” asked Saville, still retaining her hand. 

“ Yes, but it wasn't very far.” . 

“ And have you not had anything to eat yet ?” 

“ I eat before my guest ?’ ’ 

“ Yes, or your guest will be most pained and unhappy. 
See, your hand trembles from weakness ; your pulse is 
rapid, yet feeble, while mine is strong and even from gener- 
ous living. Can you think that I, who dined heartily but 
a few hours since, would take the smallest part of those 
dainty morsels which you need to keep soul and body to- 
gether ? Do you and your father sit down upon this mossy 
rock, while I carve the birds, and help you,” and he almost 
compelled them to do his bidding. Then lifting the light 
table, he placed it before them so that they could not well 
rise. 

“Now you are my prisoners,” he continued; “and 
only on the condition of your making a good supper, shall 
I permit you to escape.” 

“ Hungry as I am, I cannot eat, unless you share the 
birds with us,” persisted Vera, leaving the choice bits before 
her untasted. 


228 


J\r£AJ? TO NATURE'S HEART, 


‘ ‘ Was there ever such a queer little sister ? If any pain 
were to be borne, you would want it all, I warrant you. 
Well, ril take a wing.’’ 

“No, that may portend your sudden absence again.” 

‘ ‘ Where is Gula ?’ ’ he asked abruptly. 

“ I’se here,” said the old negress, stepping from the deep 
shadow of a rock. 

“ And right glad I am that you are still here,” said 
Saville cordially. “ I have heard how badly you were 
treated, but I am going to take care of you all now.” 

“ Mas’r Brown fired little too quick, or I'd been home 
now. I would like to git home afore de cold winter 
come. Tink I will, for de voices is callin’ po’ful strong 
lately.” 

“ But our voices will call on you more strongly to stay 
with us ; besides, I am going to bring a lively young colored 
boy to help you, when I come again. Vera,” he said in a 
low tone, turning to the young girl, “be so kind as to let 
me give my portion to this poor old creature. When I 
come again, I will, in truth, be your submissive guest.’' 

“ Well,” said Vera laughing, “ I do not know much 
about the world ; but I imagine that men always have their 
own way in it.” 

“You have indeed forgotten your Shakspeare if you think 
that. But I am much interested in your gypsy life. Where 
were these birds cooked so nicely ?” 

“ We has a stone fireplace in de side ob de hill,” said 
Oula, with a courtesy. 

“ Father has arranged it so that the smoke is carried off 
among the rocks, and in such a way that it cannot be seen 
by any one on the hills around us,” added Vera ; “ and 
the cabin, you perceive, is quite hidden by evergreens,” 

It was, indeed, even from them, wh© were but a few feet 
away. 


GULA HEARS A VERITABLE VOICE. 


229 


“ A1 this may answer in summer, but not in winter,” 
said the young man decidedly. 

“ I doubt whether we could have survived the winter,” 
Vera replied in a low tone. 

“ How quietly you speak those darkly suggestive words ! ’ 

” It was my best hope, till you came.” 

“ Thank fortune, my coming was not delayed.” 

“ I thank God,” added Vera reverently. . 

“ Don’t mention that name,” said her father irritably. • 
“ I have always heard it oftenest when my troubles thick- 
ened.” Then to Saville, “You spoke of bringing your 
colored servant. I fear it will not be safe, sir.” 

” I will give you my personal pledge that it is ; and when 
you come to know the boy, you will fear no harm from 
him. So I trust you will leave all to me, for I can provide 
for your safety more surely than you can yourself. ” 

Mr. Brown acquiesced so far as to be silent. 

Saville had seen much of the world, but the picture made 
by that wild mountain-gorge and the little group before him 
left an ineffaceable impression upon his memory. Rugged, 
rocky steeps rose on either side, one shimmering in the 
moonlight, and the other lying in the deepest shadow. 
Glades and vistas opened here and there, with strange effect, 
among the giant trees of the valley. The closely ranked 
cedars and hemlocks concealed every vestige of the little log 
hut, and the inmates, as they then appeared, were so unlike 
ordinary people, that he felt that they and the whole scene 
were more like a creation of the fancy than a part of the 
real world. But to him, who was weary of the platitudes 
and hollowness of conventional life, the picture had an un- 
speakable attraction. 

Old Gula stood a little back from her master and mistress, 
leaning her tall, gaunt form, that was feeble from age and 
lack of food, against one of the granite boulders that were 


230 


JVEA/? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


scattered thickly at the base of the mountain. Her wrinkled 
features formed as elfish and unearthly a visage as could well 
be imagined. 

The unbroken rays of the moon, as they shone full on 
Vera’s father, only made more evident what a wreck he had 
become. His face was haggard, his hair unkempt, and his 
grizzled beard had grown to enormous proportions. At 
times, when SavUle was speaking to him, he had almost the 
bearing of a finished gentleman ; a little later, he wore the 
look of a frightened animal, furtively devouring its food. 

Although Saville, with almost the appreciation of an 
artist, marked the other features and accessories of the pic- 
ture, his eyes constantly reverted to Vera with increasing in- 
terest. Having finished the repast, which, after all, was 
very meagre, she leaned her head upon her hand, and lis- 
tened with such a. wistful, intent expression in her face, that 
it was difficult for him to dwell merely on the details of a 
past campaign. He wished to comfort and reassure her. 

He now had opportunity to note the changes that had 
taken place in her appearance, and saw, with boding anx- 
iety, how frail and thin she was. Her sun-browned face 
was very pale in the moonlight, and more suggestive of 
spirit than of flesh and blood. To his kindled fancy, her 
wealth of unconfined hair grew into a halo, and the pure, 
beautiful face beneath resembled portraits of saints that he 
had -seen in picture galleries abroad, and he thought, 

“ If the world would only worship such saints — lovely, 
unselfish, and living women — there would be more hope 
. for humanity.” 

But the night was passing, and he rose to depart. 

“You will not think of returning before the break of 
day?” remonstrated Vera. 

“ Yes ; I have lingered too long already ; I must be at 
my post in the morning, and I have much to do during the 


GULA HEARS A VERITABLE VOICE. 231 

day. I shall return to-morrow evening about the same 
hour I came to-night. And now, sir, I shall ask your kind- 
ness to guide me back to the open path.'’ 

“ I can lead you by a much nearer way to Fort Mont- 
gomery, ” said Mr. Brown, rising promptly ; “ and to-night 
I feel like taking the walk. ” 

“ I will not say good by,” said Vera, in parting, ” lest it 
be followed by another long and dreary absence. ” 

Her father guided their guest for several miles, and left 
him only when the path became so plain as to be easily 
followed. Saville was greatly pleased that his visit had so 
aroused the unhappy man, and, during their walk, con- 
tinued to do his best to kindle in his mind a healthful inter- 
est in the outer world. He even obtained from him a 
promise that he would come with Vera, at sunset the follow- 
ing evening, to the place where they parted. 

During the remainder of his walk to the fort, Saville’s 
mind was very active in trying to solve the problems pre- 
sented by the peculiar character and situation of the family. 
It was clearly his first duty to supply them with food and 
clothing. He also resolved, at the earliest opportunity, to 
assure the military authorities of Mr. Brown’s loyalty to 
the American cause, and thus preserve the family from 
further molestation, because suspected of being Tories. He 
also determined that if Larry and his wife, Molly, had aught 
to do with the outrages that had been committed against the 
family, he would make them suffer to the extent of his 
ability. Vera, fearing that it might lead to a bloody quar- 
rel, had not told him of the insult received at Fort Constitu- 
tion, when she crossed thither to learn what had become of 
him. 

Early the following morning, he sought an interview with 
James Clinton, who now commanded the forts, and who, 
several months previous, had been promoted to the rank of 


232 


TO NAT CATE'S HEART, 


General. Saville, also, on the ground of inerit, had recently 
been commissioned captain in the engineer department. 

It was impossible for the young man to be a cool advo- 
cate, or to be satisfied with halfway measures, and he soon 
quite enlisted General Clinton’s sympathies in behalf of his 
proteges. His request for a brief leave of absence was 
readily granted, and full protection for the family promised. 

His next step was to secure a boat in which to visit Peek- 
skill, that he might obtain the articles of apparel and com- 
iort which both Vera and her father greatly needed ; and 
therefore he summoned the colored servant whom he had 
lately taken into his employ, and who thus far had proved a 
bundle of contradictions, a human riddle, that his master 
had been unable to solve.' 

He was a genuine African in features and manner, and of 
that uncertain age which made it doubtful whether he was 
man or boy. He had presented himself at Saville’s tent on 
the morning after his arrival, asking for service. 

“ Where do you come from ?” Saville asked. 

“ From nowhar in ’ticklar,” was the indefinite response. 

“ What is your name ?” 

“ Mas’r kin call me what he likes.” 

“ Haven’t you any name ?” 

“ I’se had a sight o’ names ; jes’ as liv hab annoder. I’ll 
answer quicker’ n lightnin’ to any name you gub me, if 
you’se ony take me.” 

“ Well, who are you, any way?” 

“ I doesn’t jes’ know.” 

“ What are you doing in this region ?” 

“ I’se a-lookin’ for somebody.” 

“ And somebody is looking for you, I imagine. You 
have run away. Where is your master ?” 

” Dar he is, I’se a-hopin’,” said this most indefinite of 
human atoms, at the same time ducking his head toward 


GULA HEARS A VERITABLE VOICE. 


233 


Saville. “ Jes’ guv me a chance, and you'se ’ll see I knows 
a heap more ’bout some oder tings dan I does ’bout my- 
self.” 

“ Very well,” said Saville carelessly. “ I will keep you 
till you are claimed, or till I find you will not answer my 
purpose.” 

At this, the boy had ducked again, and pulled a little 
horn of wool that he had seemingly coaxed over his fore- 
head for polite or politic uses. 

“ Now, if mas’r ’ll jes’ guv me a handle, I’se ’ll begin 
to be use’ 1 right straight. ’ ’ 

“ ‘ A handle ! ’ ” 

‘‘ Yeh, sumpen to call and send me by.” 

” Oh ! a name. Any one of your old ones will answer. ” 

” If mas’r please. I’d rudder he guv me a new un.” 

“ Bless me ! I don’t know what to call you, unless I take 
the mathematician’s terms for an unknown quantity, and 
name you X Y Z.” 

” Dat’ll suit kerzackly,” was the delighted response. 
“ ‘ Ekswyze.’ I neber had as big a name as dat afore.” 

“ But I shall call you X for short,” said Saville, laugh- 
ing. “ Now let me see what you can do.” 

The boy, even in a few hours, proved his ability to serve 
well, if he so chose, and now was on hand, ready to do his 
master’s bidding with alacrity. 

“ Find me a small sail-boat, that can be rowed if the 
wind is contrary, and be ready to go with me to Peekskill 
in half an hour.’ 

Within less time, the boy reported that all was ready, and 
a favorable breeze soon enabled them to reach the store of 
Daniel Birdsall. From his meagre stock, Saville made the 
best selection he could, half smiling, half frowning over the 
coarse material and stout shoes he was compelled to buy for 
Vera’s wear. 


234 


NEAR TO NAT [/RE’S HEART. 


“ They will at least keep her warm/' he thought, “ and 
I have no fears but that, by some form of woman’s magic, 
she will conjure this dark stuff into a tasteful dress. Per- 
haps I may do better another time in the stores up the 
river.” 

He also purchased an abundance of ammunition, and 
such provisions as the place furnished. Making all into 
two stout bundles, he returned, landing considerably above 
the fort, as he did not wish to be followed by curious eyes. 

” Now, X, take the boat back, and return as soon as pos- 
sible. If any inquire where I am, say that I am shooting 
among the hills.” 

X speedily rejoined his master, at whose bidding he took 
up the heavier bundle, and followed without a jot of inter- 
est, apparently, as to their destination. 

“ I am glad that you have sense enough to hold your 
tongue,” said Saville. “ For a time, you may be able to 
serve me best by serving others. I have friends back in the 
mountains, with whom I may leave you ; and if there is 
anything about them that seems strange, think what you 
please, but never speak of what you see and hear to any 
one. If you do, I have the means of making you wish you 
had bitten your tongue off first.” 

“ Mas’r Saville’ 11 find out by-and-by dat I’se po’ful good 
at knowin’ nuffin dat’s nobody’s business.” 

“Yes,” laughed Saville; ‘‘you have given me a proof 
of that already. I think you may be just the boy I want.” 

The sun appeared like a great beacon-fire on the summit 
of a western mountain, as they reached the place where Mr. 
Brown had promised to meet them with Verg, ; but there 
was not a trace of their presence. 

‘‘They have not arrived yet,” thought Saville, ‘‘ but it 
Js time they were near. I will give our old signal, and 
Vera may answer ;” and he played the familiar air. 


CULA HEARS A VERITABLE VOICE. ^35 


Almost immediately a powerful yet bird-like voice an- 
swered, from a neighboring thicket, 

“ I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows.” 

“ Gosh ! what's dat V* said X, starting up in great alarm. 

“ That is your future mistress, X; don’t run away till 
you see her.” 

As Vera stepped forth with her father, her strange appear- 
ance and remarkable beauty so impressed poor X that he 
muttered, 

“ I knowed any critter wid a voice like dat mus’ be a 
speret from one place or t’oder. Tink she ain’t from t’oder, 
dough ; for dat ar singin’ was hebbenly, sure 'nuff. But I 
doesn’t like de looks ob de ole man.” 

X soon gained his stolid composure, however, and was 
able to pull his little woolly horn with his wonted noncha^ 
lance, when introduced with his big bundle. 

Saville greeted his friends with the utmost cordiality, and 
sought by his manner to banish their timidity. Hope and 
happiness had already wrought a marvelous change in Vera, 
and Saville, as of old, found himself wondering at her 
beauty. 

“ What have you here ?” she asked, with childlike curi- 
osity and vivacity. 

“ Well, in the first place, this is X Y Z. If you can find 
out any more about him, you will accomplish more than I 
have done. As for these bundles, we will open them at the 
cabin. If you will spread a banquet for me again to-night, 
you will find that I shall need no urging to partake of it.” 

” I have nothing better than a few more birds,” said 
Vera ruefully. 

“ What could be better, my quaint Ariel ? Come, moon- 
light will not satisfy me to-night.” 

The moon was just rising when they reached the cabin. 
X sat down with his bundle where he was bidden, and, 


236 


J\r£A/^ TO NATU/^E'S HEART. 


wearied with the fatigue of the day, was inclined to go im- 
mediately to sleep, when a name, uttered by Saville, aroused 
him thoroughly. 

“ Gula," Saville had called, “ come and see what I have 
brought you.” 

“ Gula 1” repeated X. “What Gula is dis ?” and he 
strained his eyes toward the dark recess among the rocks 
where glowed a few live coals. After a moment, he could 
endure his suspense no longer, and said, 

“ Mas’r Saville, shall I bring de tings dar?” 

“What voice is dat ?” cried Gula in her shrillest and 
most excited tones. And she rushed to the spot where 
X was standing in trembling expectancy. 

“ Who is you ? What is your name ?” she asked eagerly. 

“ De name Mas’r Saville guv me is Ekswyze,” said X 
mechanically. 

“ No ! no ! no !” cried Gula, more shrill and excited 
than ever. “ What name did you’se mudder gib you when 
you’se was a little chile ?” 

“ Tascar.” 

With a wild cry Gula threw her arms around the boy, ex- 
claiming, “ Tse your mudder ! Tse called you Tascar 
when you was a baby, arter one I lubbed in de warm sun- 
land. Oh ! my po’, ole, dead heart jes’ seem as if it had 
riz right up out ob de grave. ’ ’ 

All gathered round Gula, overflowing with sympathy and 
congratulations, and the moon, rising above the eastern 
Highlands, enabled the mother to see the features of her 
long-lost sen. Every moment or two she would cry out, 

“ Yeh, yeh, it is my little Tascar, sure ’nuff. ” 

“ I knowed I’d find you, mudder,” said the boy delight- 
edly. “ Dey couldn’t keep me long down dar when dey 
sole me 'way from you. I came back to whar you used to 
be, and foun’ you had run up dis way (lame Tom tolc me). 


G[/LA HEARS A VERITABLE VOICE. 237 


De world is po’ful big place, but I knowed I’d find you if 
I only looked long ’nuff. ” 

“ You are now no longer an unknown quantity, so we 
will call you Tascar after this,” said Saville, laughing. 

” And now, Gula,” added Vera, ‘‘ you have at last heard 
a real voice, and I hope it will satisfy you, so that you will 
not listen any more for those strange, unearthly voices that 
you thought were calling you away from us. I suppose 
Tascar is hungry, like the rest of us ; so you may lake him 
into your rocky kitchen, and let him help you get our sup- 
per. Mr. Saville has generously brought us a great many 
things. 

‘‘See, Mr. Saville,” she continued, taking his arm, and 
leading him a little apart ; ‘‘see what a difference your com- 
ing has made to us all. Old Gula has found her son ; and 
father has changed so much for the better, I scarcely know 
him.” 

‘‘ And you ?” he asked gently. 

‘‘ Ah ! Mr. Saville, you have never known what it was to 
have but one friend, one hope, in the world. When I first 
heard your steps, I was lying on mother’s grave, and pray- 
ing that I might speedily sleep beside her. Surely God 
sent you to us. ” 

‘‘ Think so, little one, if it does you any good.” 

‘‘ But do you not think so ?” 

‘ ‘ All I know is that I have come, and very glad I am 
that it was not too late. ” 

” I wish you could explain to me abou God, and make 
Him seem near to me again.” 

*‘ I cannot, Vera ; let us change the subject,” Saville re- 
plied, a little abruptly. 

She sighed, but soon gave herself up to thorough enjoy- 
ment of the happiest hour that had ever yet come into her 
brief and shadowed life. 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 


238 


CHAPTER XXI. 

CAMP FIRES AND SUBTLER FLAMES. 

N ot veiy long after their bountiful supper, Saville 
said, 

“ I had but little sleep last night, and have taken many 
steps to-day ; so, with your permission, I will seek a resting- 
place. 

“lam sorry that we have scarcely anything better than 
the cabin floor to offer you,” said Vera ruefully. 

“ You forget that I am a soldier, and that at this time of 
the year I ask no better bed than the greensward.” 

The cabin, like the larger one near West Point, had been 
constructed with a small loft. Into this Vera crept, but for 
a long time was too happy for sleep. 

Saville took the blanket that Tascar had brought at his 
bidding, and, throwing himself under a wide-spreading 
hemlock, slept as only the strong and weary can sleep. 
Gula and her son dozed and crooned in their rocky recess, 
till the dawn aroused them to preparations for breakfast. 
Even the poor, remorseful exile rested with an unwonted 
sense of security. 

The next morning, Saville tried to induce Mr. Brown to 
permit him to find them a better home nearer the fort, but 
found that any proposition of the kind would not be enter- 
tained. 

‘ ‘ I have a feeling that I am safe here, and nowhere else, * ’ 
he said. “ If you think best, Vera and Gula can go, but 
I shall remain.” 


CAMP PIPES AND SUBTLER FLAMES. 239 


“ I shall not leave you, father,” said Vera, quietly. 

“Well,” said Saville, cheerily but firmly, “then we 
must make you all as comfortable here as we can. A new 
cabin, as large as the old one that was burned, must be 
built.” 

‘ ‘ But that will attract attention, ’ ’ remonstrated Mr. 
Brown. 

“ Suppose it does. I have satisfied General Clinton that 
you are loyal to our cause, and he has promised you and 
your family full protection. ” • 

“ Does General Clinton know anything of me and my 
whereabouts ?” cried the man, starting up in great alarm. 

“ Yes, sir ; and if he had only known before what I told 
him yesterday, you would not have been molested in your 
old home. Can you not see, Mr. Brown, that nothing so 
draws attention and suspicion as your effort to hide from 
every one ? At the time I was so hastily ordered away from 
this region, I yielded to your judgment, and did not say much 
concerning you, not having your permission. But now, 
for Vera’s sake, as well as your own, I can allow no doubt 
to exist as to the fact of your being heartily on our side. In 
respect to anything else, no one seeks to know aught. I 
can promise you all perfect safety, if you will do just what 
I ask. ” 

The exile’s brow contracted darkly, but he would not 
meet Saville’ s eye. 

” Mr. Brown,” said Saville, in a low, meaning tone. 

The man now gave him a startled, apprehensive look. 

” I can promise you perfect safety, if you do just what I 
ask,” Saville continued, in the same low, significant voice. 

“ I will, I will,” was the eager reply. 

“ There’s my hand in pledge.” 

Mr. Brown seized it like a drowning man, and from that 
hour became Saville ’s slave. 


240 


Ar£AJ? TO NATURE^ S HEART. 


Vera watched this strange interview with a beating heart, 
and, at its close, felt as never before, even that her destiny 
also was controlled by the young stranger, whom Providence 
had sent, as she believed, to rescue both herself and her 
father from the hopeless and helpless condition into which 
they had drifted. 

With characteristic energy and promptness, Saville set 
about the tasks made necessary by the decision to remain in 
the secluded glen. He decided that the little hut already 
built should be preserved for Gula and her son ; and the 
plan of a much larger cabin, for the use of Vera and her 
father, was marked out adjoining it. 

‘ ‘ I also mean to have* a little nook myself, ’ ’ he said. 

“ It will all be yours, ” Vera added promptly. 

He looked at her so earnestly that the blood came into 
her face, though why, she did not know. After a moment, 
he said, half to her, and half in soliloquy, 

“ I cannot tell why it is, but this place already seems to 
me more like a home than any I have yet known."’ 

“ I do not understand how you can feel so,” said Vera, 
looking frankly into his face. “ It wull, in truth, be home 
to me ; because containing, when you are here, all whom 
I love.” 

Again he gave her an earnest look, as he said, 

” Nature is a rare teacher, my little friend ; and she has 
taught you a truth which we sometimes forget, to our sor- 
row. Only the places which contain those whom we love 
can be homes. ” 

“And it is your love for us,” exclaimed Vera,, openly 
and joyously, as if she had solved the mystery, ” that makes 
this forbidding place seem homelike.” 

” That is not bad logic, ” he replied, laughing ; ” though 
your pronoun is rather too general.” 

“How strange it is,” said Vera, musingly, “that we 


CAMF FIRES AND SUBTLER FLAMES. 241 


should have met as we did, and that you should have be- 
come my brother in very truth ! Do such things often hap- 
pen in the world V 

“lam afraid not," he replied, shaking his head. 

“ Then 1 have been specially favored, when I have been 
almost repining at my lot. '' 

“ I certainly have been very fortunate in finding such a 
sweet, wild flower in this wilderness of a world. But 
come ; this is not preparing for the cold storms of winter, 
which, unfortunately, are near. You must ply the needle, 
and bring home the game, while your father and Tascar do 
the heavy work. Ye gods ! how I would like to stay here 
and help you ! I have brought plenty of powder and shot 
for your gun.“ 

‘ ‘ But will it be safe to have the report of fire-arms heard 
here ?“ 

“ Certainly ; the old policy of hiding and concealment is 
past ; and as soon as I can, I shall find you a home where 
you can have good, kind neighbors. Bring your gun, and 
let me see if you can hit that gray squirrel in yonder tall 
tree.” 

She complied, with the joyousness of a child, and was 
soon within range with her light fowling-piece. 

“ Now, quick ! before he moves,” cried Saville. 

Her merry laugh rang out, as she threw pebbles at the 
little creature, till, thoroughly alarmed, it ran to the top- 
most boughs. Then, as it was in the act of springing to 
another tree, she fired, and it fell dead at her feet. 

“ I take off my hat to you,” cried Saville, “ You excel 
Diana herself.” 

The morning passed all too quickly, and, after an early 
dinner, Saville returned to the fort, taking Tascar, that 
he might send back by him tools and other needed ar- 
ticles. 


242 


NEAR TO NAT [/RE'S HEART, 


During the week following, Saville pleaded, with justice, 
that he had scarcely had a respite from duty since joining 
the service, and obtained leave to absent himself for several 
days. He started ostensibly upon a hunting excursion in 
the mountains, but took the shortest path to the secluded 
valley, which was beginning to have for him peculiar attrac- 
tions. 

The days passed like enchantment. Under the new and 
happier conditions of her life, Vera appeared to grow hourly 
in beauty and fascination. The recuperative power of 
nature was in her mind and body. She was like a sunny 
bank, that a few warm spring dajs change from wintry bare- 
ness to fragrant bloom. 

Her feeling for Saville was the frank, undisguised affec- 
tion of a sister ; or, perhaps more truly, the strong, inno- 
cent love of a child, that gives its heart wholly for the time 
to those who win it. 

The woman in Vera was still unawakened, though, at 
times, there was an intensity in Saville’ s gaze that quickened 
her pulse a little, and mantled her cheek with a richer hue 
than even restored vigor was giving it again. 

As for Saville, he was self-deceived. We have already 
seen that he had a faculty for illusion, and this was espe- 
cially true in the line of his favorite theories. As he had 
once imagined his transient passion for a most unworthy 
object to be the precursor of lasting and conjugal affection, 
so now he regarded the pure flame of love, which was kin- 
dling in his heart for Vera, as a lofty kind of friendship, re- 
sulting from the peculiar accord of their two natures. He 
felt that he was in all respects ennobled and made better by 
her society. Unconsciously she stimulated every good 
quality he possessed into greater vigor. She was so pure 
and innocent herself that his passion slept in her presence, 
while his higher faculties of mind and heart were awakened 


CAMP FIRES AND SUBTLER FLAMES. 243 


into aspirations that were as thrillingly delightful as they 
were foreign to all his former experience. 

Moreover, his conscience commended the part he was 
acting toward her. The circumstances of their acquaintance 
had been such, that every generous, sympathetic trait he 
possessed was enlisted in her behalf. He regarded himself 
as a disciple of nature and an apostle of humanity. In his 
view, nature had been her teacher, and had formed her 
character ; and the result confirmed his theory that all 
should be guided by nature’s teachings. In their warm and 
growing friendship,^ were not they both following the strong 
and natural impulses of their hearts ? 

As one devoted to the interests of humanity, he would 
consider himself most false, did he leave this innocent 
maiden to the perils of her peculiar isolated condition, and 
he honestly desired to obtain for her a safe and recognized 
position in society, as soon as possible. 

But the spell of her beauty grew daily upon him ; the 
touch of her hand was acquiring subtle power to thrill every 
nerve and fiber of his body ; the tones of her voice kept re- 
pealing themselves for long hours in his heart ; and before 
his visit was over, even the man of theories and illusions 
was perplexed at certain peculiarities in his platonic friend- 
ship. 

But the woman in Vera stilPslumbered, and she returned 
his affection with the same frank innocence as at first. 

After his visit to the romantic glen, life at the fort was to 
Saville very “weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable.” Not 
even the fact that the enemy might soon make a demon- 
stration up the river, could greatly divert his thoughts at 
first, and only as the tidings from the armies, under both 
Washington and Gates grew full of exciting interest, and 
the prospect that the British forces in New York would seek 
to force their way through the Highlands became quite cer- 


244 


J\r£A/^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


tain, did his old military ardor rekindle. As all seemed 
quiet on Saturday evening, the 4th of October, he obtained 
permission to be absent from the fort during the Sabbath. 
The moment the duties of the day were over, he was on his 
way to the secluded valley, which now shut in his thoughts 
from the outer world almost as completely as it immured 
the exiles who had found a refuge there. 

His coming was a glad surprise to Vera, and there were 
evidences of deeper feeling in her welcome than she had 
ever’yet manifested. 

“ You are not going away again frotn this region she 
asked eagerly. 

“ Not soon, that I am aware. Why ?” 

‘ ‘ I have had such a dreary foreboding of evil of some 
kind, and last night I dreamed ” and she suddenly cov- 

ered her face with her hands, and burst into tears. 

“ Why, Vera, this is unlike you : are you well T* 

“ Yes, yes ; but it was such a terrible dream !" 

“ Tell me it, and I will explain it away."' 

“ I dreamed that there had been a battle, and that you 
were left wounded and djing on the ground, and I could 
not find you,’" she said, in a low, shuddering tone, with 
tears starting afresh. “ Is there prospect of a battle ?’" 

“ No special prospect — no more than there has been for 
several days past ; but a soldier cannot look for anything 
else. ” 

“ I wish I did not feel so,” said Vera. 

“ Come, cheer up, my little friend. Dreams go by con- 
traries. Never shed tears over troubles that may not come 
and he exerted himself to his utmost to banish her gloomy 
fears. 

The new log cabin, at which he also had labored during 
his visit, was now nearly complete, and he kindled a genial 
fire in its ample chimney- place. 


CAMP FIRES AND SUBTLER FLAMES. 245 


He took a genuine interest in all that had been done in 
his absence, and praised the results of each one’s labor. 
But Vera noted with pleasure that he lingered longest over 
her handiwork. Never before had he been so kind or so 
thoughtful of her. His mere tones and glances were like 
caresses. But all this only made her heart more full, for 
she could not cast off the miserable presentiment with which 
she had risen that morning. For his sake, however, she 
disguised her feelings. 

After dinner, the following day, they took a long walk 
together, ana she accompanied him well on his way back to 
the fort. 

As they were parting, she said, as she clung to his hand, 

“Promise me one thing — if there is a battle — that you 
will not needlessly or recklessly expose yourself. What 
would become of us if you were— if you were — oh ! my 
heart almost breaks even at the thought ! If you have any 
pity or love for me, grant what I ask.” 

“ ‘ If I have any love for you,’ Vera? I hardly dare 
trust my heart to answer. Well, well, little sister, I will be 
as prudent as a soldier can be with honor. I must say 
good-by at once, or I may be tempted not to go at all,” 
and for the first time he stooped down and kissed her fore- 
head. 

She watched his receding figure as long as it was visible, 
and then returned to the cabin, with an increasing weight 
upon her heart. 

Bv the time he reached the vicinity of the fort, the camp 
fires were lighted, and around these the men were gathered, 
cooking the evening meal. To divert his thoughts, he wan- 
dered aimlessly here and there, watching the strange effects 
of light and shadow among the rocks and evergreens, and 
the picturesqueness of the bearded men as they passed to 
and fro between the fires. Even the coarse rations of the 


£4^ NEAR TO NA TURNS HEART 

soldiery gave forth a savory odor in the open air. From 
all sides came the cheerful hum of voices, and from many 
groups, the sound of laughter, or the notes of a rollicking 
song. 

“ This scene has more the air of a gypsy encampment 
than the stern aspect of war,'’ he thought. “ I wish Vera 
could see it, for it would quite allay her fears. What does 
that singing mean yonder?” and he made his way to a 
large fire, around which numbers were increasing con- 
tinually.” 

” Oh ! it’s a religious meeting. There is Parson Gano I 
How dearly Vera would love to hear his pious jargon, and 
would swallow it all, poor child, as undoubted truth ! 
Still, I am glad to note that she speaks less and less of 
these things, and think she has a native strength of mind 
which will enable her to outgrow her superstitious trammels. 
Well, Gano is a good, brave fellow, if he is teaching solemn 
nonsense ; and out of curiosity I’ll stay, and hear what he 
has to say.” And he sat down under the shadow of a tree, 
and watched the scene, as one might look on some heathen- 
ish incantation. 

The throng around the fire grew large, for the preacher 
was a popular speaker. Officers mingled with the men, as 
they would do in the plain meeting houses in their distant 
village homes ; and Saville could not help noting that the 
serious faces lighted up by the glare of the central fire, 
were, in the main, manly, self-respecting and intelligent. 

“How is it,” he asked himself, “that sane and even 
very clever people can keep up with so much pains this old- 
fashioned mummery of religion? Cuibono? What is the 
good of it all ? Here we are living in a world of inexorable 
law and destiny, and yet multitudes are praying to an old 
Hebrew divinity, that never had any existence, as if they 
expected practical help ! Could anything be more absurd ? 


CAMP FIRES AND SUBTLER FLAMES, 247 


The idea of my getting down on my knees, and praying to 
one of Homer’s demi-gods i What is it in men that makes 
them so credulous ?’ ’ 

Here he suspended his soliloquy to listen to the hymn 
which the chaplain gave out before his sermon. The voices 
that sang it were untrained and rough, and the harmony 
not very smooth, and yet the critical listener admitted to 
himself that there was a certain element in the music which 
made it differ from a mere performance. 

“ Human action, however absurd and unreasonable, is 
always impressive when earnest,” he philosophized ; 
“ but, after all, what is the secret spring in man which 
leads to this folly ?” 

Though not aware of it at first, he was answered by the 
text, which was now announced : 

“Jesus saith unto her, I am the resurrection and the 
life ; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet 
shall he live ; 

“ And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never 
die. Believest thou this ?” 

“No, ’’was Saville’s decided mental response. “That 
Jesus said this ‘ unto her,’ is most appropriate, for it was an 
assertion fit to be addressed only to a credulous woman. ’’ 

“ The Being who uttered these remarkable words, ” began 
the chaplain, simply standing up before the fire, and talk- 
ing in a familiar and fatherly way to his audience, “ had the 
power to make them good ; and, therefore, we may take to 
our hearts all the hope and encouragement they contain.” 

“That is where we differ,” thought Saville, rising and 
shrugging his shoulders. “ Why had the man, Jesus, such 
power, more than other enthusiasts of the past ? That is 
the way with all these teachers of religion. They first as- 
sume what is contrary to reason, and, as a matter of course, 
their conclusions are absurd, and often monstrous. There 


248 


NEAR TO NAT [/RE'S HEART. 


is no use of my wasting more time here/’ But, as he was 
moving away, the preacher’s words again caught his atten- 
tion. 

“To-night,” said Chaplain Gano, “the scenes, even 
within and around these military forts, are peaceful, rather 
than warlike. The sky is cloudless, and there are the stars 
looking down as steadily as the ejes of God. Only the 
insects’ chirp is heard in the dark valleys and on the steeps 
around us. The Sabbath stillness is broken by no ruder 
sounds than the profane mirth and songs which sometimes 
disturb our worship. To the ear of heaven, though, ribald 
words and laughter make harsher discord than the wildest 
din of battle, where freemen are warring for their rights. 
Still, there is nothing apparent to man, in the scenes about 
us to-night, to awaken the emotion of fear, even in the 
breasts of the fearful. 

“But, what shall be on the morrow? Such is our un- 
certain tenure of earthly life, we could not ask this question 
in our peaceful homes without misgivings. But, how much 
it means to the soldiery ! Only by killing many of us, do 
our enemies hope to put their feet again upon our necks. 
Many of us must be slain before our righteous cause can 
triumph. A few years, perhaps but a few days — do not 
think I am talking wildly when I say, but a few hours — may 
elapse before these warm, living bodies of ours become like 
the clods beneath our feet.” 

A foreboding recollection of Vera’s dream came into 
Saville’s mind. 

“Young man,” continued the chaplain more earnestly, 
leveling his long finger at a careless young fellow, who was 
whispering to a comrade on the opposite side of the fire, 
“ I have no doubt that you are a brave soldier. Alas ! you 
seem so bold that you are willing to defy God as well as 
man. When the foe attacks these forts, you will try to do 


CAMP FIRES AiVD SUBTLER FLAMES. 249 


your duty. But do you not realize that this very duty may 
cause your vigorous young body to be racked with dying 
pains ? If I could tell you that to-morrow evening you 
would be lying dead somewhere in the cold starlight, what 
ought you to do now ? What ought you — and you — and 
you — to do?” he asked solemnly, sweeping his finger 
around the entire circle. ‘ ‘ What oug/i/ we all to do ? 

“Ought? How great the privilege, rather, of creatures 
like ourselves — weak and ready to perish at all times, now 
hourly exposed to peril — how great is the privilege of heed- 
ing the Divine Saviour as He cries, ‘ I am the resurrection 
and the life.' If we trust and fear the One who spake 
these words, we have naught else to fear. The bullet that 
pierces us may be but God's swift messenger to summon us 
home. Suppose our mangled bodies do strew these rugged 
hill-sides and rocky forts ! The cruel foe cannot so trample 
them out of shape, nor time so destroy them, nor the winds 
so scatter and dissipate them, but that He, who declared, 

‘ I am the resurrection, ’ can raise them up, no longer dead 
and defaced, but fashioned like unto His glorious body ; 
and so shall we be ever with the Lord. Then why live an- 
other hour, why go into desperate battle, without this pre- 
cious Friend ? 

“ Comrades in peril ! I have not sought to work upon 
your fears to-night, but rather to lead you to accept a faith 
which makes even cowards brave, and strong men lions for 
the right. We have reason to think that we shall soon meet 
the enemy ; but there is no foe on earth, or in hell be- 
neath, that can strike a fatal blow at the honest Christ- 
believer and follower.'' 

To Saville’s surprise, the preacher had kept him a listener 
until the close of his exhortation. Then with a shrug, he 
strode away into the darkness saying, “ Here, I suppose, is 
the secret of it all. Men know they must die ; these poor 


250 


TO NATURE'S HEART. 


fellows are aware that they may be knocked on the head 
within a few days. They all want to live after they are dead 
(as if the very idea were not absurd), and they give a ready 
hearing tO anybody who holds out the hope that they may. 
Well, I wouldn’t mind an eternal Elysium myself, if I could 
have the fashioning of it. One thing is certain — Vera 
would share it with me.” 

As he was threading his way among the camp-fires, toward 
his quarters, he heard his own name mentioned, and natu- 
rally paused to learn in what connection it was used. The 
voice came from beyond a clump of cedars to his right, 
and, looking through it, he saw, just below a ledge of rock, 
a circle of visages, differing widely in character from those 
gathered round the chaplain’s fire. The physiognomy of 
Larry, his old servant, was the type of the majority on which 
the flames were flickering, although the expression of many 
was still more unpromising. But the bold, handsome face 
of his wife, “ Captain Molly,” would have received the first 
attention, even if she had not been speaking. 

” Is it where yer ould masther, Saville, does be goin' out 
in the woods that ye’re askin’, Larry ?” 

“ Yees.” 

“Well, I’m a-thinkin’, should ye follow his trail, ye’d 
foind the White Witch o’ the Highlands.” 

” It’s a long day since she’s been seen or heard on.” 

” He’s found her, I warrant ye ; an’ moighty glad lam 
we had nothin’ to do wid the diviltry when Barney w as 
shot. He questioned me close, an’ if I’d been a-lyin’, 
I fear he’d a-cotched me. Wherever this gal o’ his’n is, 
folks as don’t want their heads broke ud better let her 
alone. ’ ’ 

” But what would his wife say to his galivantin’ off in 
the mountings ?” asked Larry. 

“Why should he care?” said Molly carelessly. “If 


CAMP PIPES AND SUBTLER FLAMES, 251 


what ye tell me is thrue, he’s got a divil for a wife, and may 
well look for a betther one.” 

“ ’Cordin’ to that,” snickered Larry, “it’s me that shud 
go galivantin’ off in the mountings too.” 

A loud laugh followed this sally. 

” Thry it once,” cried Molly, ‘‘an’ ye’ll foind that the 
divil will be arther ye in a way ye’ll not forgit.” 

“ Now Molly, me darlint, ye knows I was only a-givin’ 
ye a poke in the ribs in sport, so ye needn’t guv me any 
in good earnest. My ould masther can have the White 
Witch o’ the Highlands, and the Black Witch, too, for all 
o’ me.” 

Saville stayed to hear no more of their low talk, but hast- 
ened on, his cheeks tingling that his name had been coupled 
with that of the maiden under such circumstances. 

He sat down in his tent in no enviable mood, and, for 
the first time, permitted his mind to dwell on the conse- 
quences of his growing intimacy with Vera. After all, 
would his brother officers, would the world, take -a more 
charitable view than that which he had just heard expressed ? 
He might assert that his love for Vera was friendship, broth- 
erly affection ; but he plainly foresaw society’s shrug of in- 
credulity. From the depths of his heart, also, a question 
was beginning to arise. 

‘‘ Is your love for Vera fraternal or platonic only ?” And 
he found that he could not give a prompt and positive an- 
swer. Then the pledge he had made on the memorable 
Sabbath evening, when he sacrificed all ties to his patriotism, 
rose up before him like a spectre. 

“ I shall be loyal to the name of wife, though the reality 
I never had.” 

‘‘ Curses on the priest-ridden, law-marred world !” he 
muttered, ‘‘ wherein every natural impulse is thwarted. If 
I continue to act the part of a brother toward Vera, society 


252 


JVEAJ? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


will point its finger toward us both in scoffing unbelief, and 
imagine the worst. If, because she is so truly lovable, I 
come to love her more warmly, and seek for some honor- 
able solution of the problem, society will heartlessly tell me 
that there is none, in this prudish land, save open shame. 
I shall be informed that the combination of woman, devil, 
and bigot, in New York, is my wife ; that the mummery in 
the church made us one, when we have nothing in common 
except our hate ; and that it is foul sin for me to think of 
another. Where is men’s reason } Why, even the instinct 
of this coarse, untutored Irish woman hit upon a better 
philosophy. And yet so it is, and so it will be until the 
broad and rational principles which are revolutionizing 
France are accepted and acted upon here. Oh ! that we 
had a Voltaire and a Rousseau to break the chains of the 
past, and teach that the impulses of the heart are right I 
But now, all my pure and ennobling affection for Vera, and 
her snow-white love for me, will be jumbled in the same 
category as the infidelity of this woman, Molly, to her hus- 
band.” 

Further bitter musings were interrupted by the appearance 
of an orderly, with the message that his presence was required 
at once at headquarters. 


THR STORMING OF THE FORTS. 


253 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE STORMING OF THE FORTS. 

O N reaching the tent of General James Clinton, Saville 
found all the leading officers of the garrison already 
assembled, and was informed that the enemy were advancing 
up the river, and had already landed large forces at Tarry- 
town and Verplanck’s Point. He also found that Governor 
Clinton had just arrived, with a considerable reinforcement 
of militia. After giving such directions as were deemed 
necessary, Governor Clinton said, 

“ The enemy will probably strike Putnam at Peekskill 
first, but we shall have our own share of fighting, no doubt, 
and may have to do the most of it. It is well known to you, 
gentlemen, that the garrisons are not as strong as we could 
wish. We must double our strength by doubling our cour- 
age and efforts. I shall expect every man to do his whole 
duty. I request that the engineer officers do all in their 
power to strengthen the unfinished portions of the works. ” 
Throughout the remainder of the night, the din of labor 
resounded, and only toward the break of day was Saville 
able to get a little sleep. 

On awakening, he immediately repaired to the governor’s 
tent for instructions, and had scarcely reached the place, 
when Major Logan, who had been sent with one hundred 
men on a scouting expedition be)ond the Dunderberg, re- 
turned, with the startling information that about forty boats, 
crowded with British troops, had landed near Stony Point. 


254 


TO NATURE'S HEART. 


Saville, having no special command, was willing to do 
anything which promised active and exciting service ; he 
therefore volunteered to go on a reconnoissance. Governor 
Clinton, who had learned his value in such employment on 
a previous occasion, at once accepted his offer, and gave 
him, as a support, a lieutenant and thirty men. 

Saville and his party proceeded rapidly along the moun- 
tain-road leading from Fort Clinton to Haverstraw, and, 
when between three and four miles out, suddenly met the 
vanguard of the English forces, upon the rapid and stealthy 
march which had, as its object, the surprise of the forts. 

The small American detachment was peremptorily sum- 
moned to surrender. 

“ Give ’em a volley as our answer,” said Saville ; and 
the wooded defile was at once filled with the preliminary 
echoes of the mighty uproar soon to rage among the High- 
lands. 

Under the cover of their fire, the scouting party retreated 
rapidly to a new point of observation, fortunately* none 
being wounded by the return fire of the enemy. 

After some further skirmishing, in which the numbers 
and purposes of the attacking force became more apparent 
Saville retreated rapidly, without the loss of a man, and re- 
ported. In the mean time, patrols had brought word that 
the enemy were also advancing around Bear Mountain, to 
the rear of Fort Montgomery. 

” Putnam has been outwitted,” said Governor Clinton, 
” and we’ve got to take all the blows. Well, I believe in 
giving even the devil his due ; and, in my opinion. Sir 
Henry Clinton has executed a magnificent piece of strategy. 
He really does hcnor to the name, and I am quite inclined 
to claim relationship. We must see to it, James, that we 
prove that the American branch of the family has not degen- 
erated,” and the brothers smiled grimly and significantly. 


THE STORMING OF THE FORTS. 


255 


Before many hours passed, Sir Henry himself would have 
been among the first to admit the sturdiness of the colonial 
stock, 

“It is now past noon,” said General James Clinton, 
“and yet we hear nothing from Putnam. It’s very 
strange 1“ 

“I will send a messenger at once to him,” said his 
brother, and a man by the name of Waterbury was dis- 
patched. 

“ I hope that fellow can be depended upon, for I did not 
like his looks overmuch,” said James Clinton. “The 
firing is growing sharp out on the Bear Mountain road, and 
we must have reinforcements soon, if they are to be of any 
service. There ! the firing has commenced at the abatis, 
where the road passes Sinnipink Pond. I will return to 
Fort Clinton at once, and do my utmost to carry out the 
measures we have concerted.” 

“ God be with you, brother ! Hit hard and often, and 
remember, we won’t lower the flag while we have a foot of 
ground to fighi on ! How many men did you say were at 
the abatis by the pond ?” 

“ Over a hundred.” 

“ Let them hold the point obstinately. Time is worth 
everything to us now. Troops from Putnam must be here 
soon. Farewell.” 

“ Saville,” continued the governor, “ as you have po 
command, you can serve me best by acting as ai^^. 
Colonels Bruyn and M’Claghrey are out op the Qrange 
Furnace road with sixty men. Tell Colonel Ijivingslon tQ 
detach thirty more to their support. Take tl^at horse yon- 
der, ride out, learn what you cup, apd report as soon as 
possible. ” 

Saville urged the poor beast at a tremendous pace up the 
rocky way ; but, by the time he reached the point of con- 


JVEA/? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


356 

flict, the advance skirmishers of the small American force 
had been driven in, and Colonel Campbell, with the assault- 
ing column, was pressing on as rapidly as the narrow road, 
leading through a wild, rugged pass, permitted. The 
enemy paused a moment, as a brass field-piece sent a ball 
plowing into their ranks, and then, with the courage and 
steadiness of trained soldiers, filed off, on either side of the 
road, into the partial shelter of the wooded hill-sides, and 
pressed on as before, in the face of a brisk fire of small- 
arms. Their advance was so rapid, and the road so rough 
and impracticable, that it was found impossible to extricate 
the field- piece, and it was therefore spiked and abandoned. 

With these tidings, Saville returned to the fort. But, 
while present at the affray over the field-piece, his attention 
had been caught by the occasional report of a single rifle 
from a shaggy hill-side, along which he knew the enemy 
must be advancing, and he correctly surmised that it was 
the exile, striking at the power he so greatly dreaded. Vera’s 
dream and presentiment flashed into his mind, and he mut- 
tered, 

“ Poor child ! this firing no doubt causes her to imagine 
that all her forebodings of evil will come true. I hope I 
shall live to laugh her out of such fancies for the future.” 

On his way back to the fort, he had observed that Col- 
onel Lamb had posted himself in a commanding position, 
with a twelve- pounder ; and the veteran had grimly re- 
marked that they would hear from him soon. 

‘‘ Return, and request Colonel Lamb to hold the enemy 
in check as long as possible. Then cross to Fort Clinton, 
and bring me word how things are going there. Good 
God! Why doesn’t Putnam send me help?” said Gov- 
ernor Clinton, who was chafing like a lion in the toils. 

Saville made the fire fly along the flinty road, and soon 
regained the crest of the hill upon which Colonel Lamb had 


THE STORMING OF THE FORTS. 


257 


posted himself with his formidable twelve- pounder. The 
advance party, under Colonel Bruyn, were marching around 
to the rear of the gun, within supporting distance. As 
soon as the head of the English column showed itself, Lamb 
opened with the precision of aim for which he was famous, 
and his quick firing, with the havoc which it made, once 
again, and more decidedly, checked the hostile advance. 

The sharp-shooters under Colonel Bruyn were seeking 
stations among the trees and rocks, from which to gall the 
enemy with small-arms, and aid in maintaining the position, 
when, unfortunately, the cannon with which Colonel Lamb 
was doing so much execution burst. The British troops, 
with a loud huzza, rushed forward, and the Americans re- 
treated, fighting, to the fort. 

When Saville reached Fort Clinton, the abatis at Lake 
Sinnipink had been carried, and such of its defenders as had 
not been killed and disabled were retreating rapidly, with 
the enemy close upon them. 

Coolly walking the parapet of the fort, with the bullets 
already whistling round him, was the tall form of Chaplain 
Gano ; and his intrepid bearing had an excellent influence 
on the militia, most of whom were now, for the first time, 
to face the dreaded Hessians, who were, to many of the 
simple rustics of that day, monsters rather than men. Fear- 
ful stories concerning them were rife, the mildest of which 
being that, as they were unacquainted with the English 
tongue, they neither understood nor heeded offers of sur- 
render or cries for mercy ; but bayoneted indiscriminately 
all who fell into their hands. 

The survivors of the conflict at the abatis brought word 
that these terrible Hessians were advancing in vast numbers, 
at which poor Larry so quaked that he could scarcely serve 
his gun, and not a few others wished themselves safe in 
their humble homes. But “ Captain Molly” rallied the 


TO NATURE'S HEART. 


258 

spirits and courage of those near her, by springing on the 
rampart, and calling, in her shrillest tones, 

“ Come on, Hessians or Red-coats ; we’ll trate ye all 
the same, and’ll put more bullets an’ balls intil yees than 
ye’ll loike for supper. ” 

“ Och ! Molly, me darlint, get down,” cried Larry. 
” What wud we all do an’ ye shud sthop a Hessian bullit ?” 

But Molly recklessly kept her exposed position, gesticu- 
lating and firing volleys of epithets toward the advancing 
foe, until ordered down by one of the officers. She then 
descended, amid the loud huzzas and laughter of scores of 
poor fellows whose voices would soon be hushed. 

Having received such message as General James Clinton 
desired to send to his brother, Saville galloped back to Fort 
Montgomery, and barely escaped being intercepted by the 
environing forces. 

It was now four o’clock, and both the forts were fairly 
invested. The two brave men who commanded them were 
still hoping for aid from Putnam, and determined to make 
as obstinate a resistance as their inadequate forces permitted. 

The enemy gave but brief respite, and, after a rapid dis- 
position of the assaulting columns, pushed forward to the 
attack. By the aid of his glass, Saville could see his old 
acquaintance. Colonel Beverly Robinson, leading forward 
many neighbors and fellow townsmen whom he knew. 

It was evident that the enemy did not calculate upon a 
very stubborn resistance, and hoped to carry the works by a 
simultaneous attack. Therefore they advanced confidently, 
and in imposing military array, expecting to awe and intimi- 
date the rustic soldiery opposed to them. But the terrific 
and well-directed fire, both of cannon and small-arms, that 
circled around the ramparts of both the forts, soon taught 
them their error, and showed that the keys of the High- 
lands could be won only by a bloody battle. 


THE STORMING OF THE FORTS. 259 

Again and again they advanced to the charge, but only to 
be repulsed and driven back, strewing the' broken and rocky 
region with their dead and wounded. 

An hour passed —an hour of bloody, obstinate fighting, 
on both sides — in which many souls, hot with wrath, mad 
with excitement, passed away from the scene of conflict. 

But, to the scanty garrison, the loss of men was a far 
more serious matter than to the full battalions of the enemy. 
The lines of Fort Montgomery were extensive, and but par- 
tially finished ; and Governor Clinton was able to repulse 
all attacks thus far only by good generalship and the in- 
domitable spirit of his men. 

The British officers, however, had by this time gauged 
quite correctly the forces opposed to them, and were satis- 
fied that they could eventually carry the works by the mere 
weight of numbers. In order to save himself further loss, 
Sir Henry Clinton ordered a brief cessation of hostilities, 
and sent in a flag of truce, with the dire threat that, unless 
both the garrisons surrendered within five minutes, he would 
put all to the sword. 

Lieutenant-Colonel Livingston was ordered to receive the 
flag, and instructed to inform Sir Henry Clinton that the 
Americans would defend the forts to the very last extremity. 

“ This putting everybody to the sword is a game that two 
can play at,'^ remarked the governor grimly. He still had 
hopes that a reinforcement from Peekskill might arrive at 
any moment, and felt sure that if he could maintain the posi- 
tion until the following day, he would certainly receive relief. 

Having defiantly refused to capitulate, nothing now re- 
mained for the garrisons but the most desperate resistance. 
As the men in Fort Clinton saw the flag retire from the open 
space where the parley had been held, they set their teeth, 
and many faces grew white and stern with the determination 
to sell life dearly. 


26 o 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART 


The October day was drawing to a close. The sky was 
overcast with clouds, as if heaven, offended at the rude 
clamor of earthly passion, were frowning upon the scene. 

As the flag disappeared within the hostile ranks, there 
was, for a few moments, an awful lull and suspense. The 
echoes of the preceding strife had died away, and there was 
now an ominous and oppressive silence, broken only by the 
groans of the wounded and dying. Then, from the environ- 
ing foe, came a hoarse and increasing murmur of rage. 
Commands and orders were given rapidly, and the storm of 
war broke forth more vehemently than before. 

The British ships, under Admiral Hotham, had now 
come up within range, and commenced bombarding the 
forts and the American vessels that were anchored above the 
chain and chevaux-de-/rise, which had been stretched across 
the river for the purpose of obstructing navigation. The 
conflict was thus raging upon the water as well as on the 
shore, the heavy guns of each party adding greatly to the 
fearful uproar resounding among the mountains. 

The sun was setting behind obscuring clouds, and, in the 
early and deepening gloom, the flashes from the firelocks 
and cannon grew more lurid and distinct, increasing the 
terrors of the scene. The garrison of Fort Montgomery, 
thinned by the strife which had already occurred, and com- 
pelled to defend works far too extensive and imperfect, con- 
sidering its scanty number, was fighting heroically, and had 
thus far repulsed the most determined assaults. But the 
governor’s forces were inadequate, and the enemy were gain- 
ing and holding positions, in the broken region in the rear 
of the fort, that were menacingly near the American lines. 

At one of these threatened points, Saville, who was sweep- 
ing the field with his glass, saw a heavy massing of British 
grenadiers, and he directed the governor’s attention thither. 
Lord Rawdon was preparing for his memorable charge, 


THE STORMING OF THE FORTS, 


261 


which, with the supporting attacks all along the line, decided 
the fate of the day. As a chivalric volunteer, at his side 
was his friend, the Count Gabrouski, a Polish aide-de-camp 
of Sir Henry Clinton. 

The governor, for a moment, scanned, with a heavy frown, 
this thunderbolt, whose shock he must soon sustain, and 
then made such disposition to receive it as was possible in 
the brief time allowed him. 

“ If we do not repulse this attack, and the worst comes 
to the worst," he said to Saville, “ cross to Fort Clinton, 
by the foot-path, and tell my brother not to surrender, but 
cut his way out among the hills. The darkness will favor 
this.” 

Slowly and steadily at first, but with increasing speed, the 
assaulting column advanced through the gloom, becoming 
every second more distinct and terrible. Cannon and 
musket balls made gaps, but the ranks closed up, leaving 
no more trace than the smooth surface of a smitten lake. 
The foremost fell. The point of this human entering wedge 
appeared to crumble, as it reached the fort. The tall Polish 
count seemed at one moment a Homeric demi-god, as he 
was about to spring across the fosse upon the rampart. A 
second later, he was a weak, dying man, with only strength 
to gasp, to the grenadier who bent over him, 

” Take this sword to Lord Rawdon, and tell him the 
owner died like* a soldier. ” 

The American resistance was as vain as it was heroic. 
The assaulting column, like a black river, flowed steadily 
on, and by its enormous weight alone pressed everything 
back. 

“ To my brother, quick, with my message," cried the 
governor to Saville ; and by the time Saville extricated him- 
self from the fort, a hand-to-hand milee had commenced. 

In his swift transit across the deep ravine, Vera’s dream 


262 


NEAR TO NAT [/RE’S HEART. 


again occurred to him, with an ominous significance, and 
his face grew white and rigid, with the determination un- 
waveringly to meet the worst. But as, in this moment of 
solitude and respite from the mad excitement of battle, he 
realized his danger, and therefore hers, in her isolation, his 
heart sickened. 

When he entered Fort Clinton, the situation was as des- 
perate as it had been at Fort Montgomery at the moment of 
his departure. All was confusion. In the increasing dark- 
ness, he could not discover General Clinton. At several 
points, the enemy seemed pouring over the ramparts. 
Shouts, yells, curses, groans, the clangor of weapons, and 
crash of musketry deafened and bewildered him. He also 
noted, as proof that the enemy were taking the fort, that all 
firing of cannon had ceased on the part of the Americans. 
Suddenly he heard, above the uproar, a shrill voice, which 
he knew to be “ Captain Molly’s,’’ crying, 

“ Back, ye spalpeen ! Fire the gun.” 

“ Here, at least,” he thought, “ must be enough of our 
troops to form a rallying-point,” and drawing his sword, he 
rushed toward the place from whence came the voice. Fugi- 
tives rushed against him ; a second later he saw Larry break 
from the grasp of his wife, throw down his lighted match, 
and fly. 

“ Divil a sthep will I rin, till that gun’s fired,” cried 
Molly, seizing the match ; and, in the faces of the enemy, 
who were climbing the rampart, she touched off the last 
cannon that was discharged in Fort Clinton. 

All this passed in a very few seconds. With a wild Irish 
whoop of exultation, Molly turned to escape, when a Hes- 
sian lieutenant laid his iron grasp upon her, and raised his 
heavy saber to strike. 

“ Wretch ! would you kill a woman ?” cried Saville, and 
he ran the man through the body. 


THE STORMING OF THE FORTS. 


263 


“ The Holy Vargin bless ye ! Mislher Saville, ” ejaculated 
Molly, spiinging away like a deer, the moment the grasp 
on her arm relaxed. But, looking back as she ran, she 
saw Saville fall, from a savage bayonet thrust in his breast. 
Then, the human wave that was surging into the fort swept 
over him. Under the cover of darkness, she leaped the 
parapet on the opposite side, scrambled down the steep 
bank into the ravine of Poplopen Creek, and escaped with 
many other fugitives, among whom was General James 
Clinton, wounded, but indomitable in his purpose not to 
fall into the enemy’s hands. 

Governor Clinton was also among the last to leave Fort 
Montgomery. On reaching the shore of the river, he saw 
a boat pushing away, and hailed it. The officer in charge 
knew his voice, and caused the boat to return. But it was 
found to be already loaded to the gunwale, and the gov- 
ernor would not endanger the safety of its occupants by en- 
tering it. The loyal officer generously offered to give up 
his place, but the governor, equally generous, would not 
listen to this. The enemy were pressing closely, and it was 
agreed to try the experiment of adding the weight of one 
more, and, to the joy of all, the boat was still above the 
water’s edge. The perilous transit was made in safety, and 
on the further shore were found five hundred men, whom 
the bewildered Putnam had at last sent, but too late to be 
of any service. 

The man Waterbury, whom the governor had dispatched 
to Peekskill, had treacherously delayed his departure, and, 
on the following day, deserted to the enemy. 

On the capture of the forts, the American vessels above 
the chevaux-de-frise slipped their cables, and tried to escape 
up the river ; but the wind was adverse, and their crews, to 
avoid capture, set them on fire, and abandoned them. 
Then followed scenes that were weird and awful in the ex- 


264 


JV£A/^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


treme, forming an appropriate close to the bloody drama of 
the day. By reason of the clouds, night had come on sud- 
denly, and was very dark. When the torches were applied 
to the ships, every sail was set, the cannon were loaded, and 
there was an abundance of ammunition in the magazines. 
In a few moments, they became pyramids of fire, as the 
flames, fanned by the gale, leaped from deck to mast-head. 
The rugged, precipitous shores were lighted up as with the 
glare of noon, and the neighboring mountains seemed like 
a group of giants standing around their mighty camp-fires. 

As the flames reached the heavy guns, they were dis- 
charged, not as in battle, but irregularly, fitfully, as if some 
capricious demon were directing all in accordance with its 
mad impulses. 

The region where the vessels were drifting has ever been 
famous for its echoes, and, from the first, the clamor of the 
strife had been repeated and augmented, until it might have 
seemed that the combatants were innumerable. But when 
the fire reached the magazines of the ships, volcanic explo- 
sions followed, at which even the granite hills appeared to 
tremble, and it seemed as if the deep reverberations never 
would cease. Old Gula, cowering in her rocky niche, 
muttered, 

“ Dat’s de mos’ awful voice I’se eber heard. I’se afeared 
onT.” 

The burning wrecks were at last quenched beneath the 
water. Alter all, the passions of men cannot long disturb 
nature's deep repose, and soon silence and night held un- 
disputed sway on the river, and among the mountains. 


THE WIFE'S QUEST AMONG THE DEAD. 265 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE wife’s quest AMONG THE DEAD. 

F or a long lime, lights had glanced hither and thither 
on the battle-field and within the forts, and, to one 
eager watcher in the distance, their movements had seemed 
as erratic and meaningless as the glimmer of fireflies in 
June. The surgeons, with their assistants, were gathering 
up the wounded, and conveying them to points where they 
could receive such attention as the hour and place' permitted. 

At last, Fort Clinton was deserted by all except an occa- 
sional sentinel, and those who still lay within its walls were 
very quiet. 

At an early hour in the evening, its parapet was crossed 
by two British officers, one of whom carried a lantern, and 
seemed bent on an eager quest. 

“ I say, Vennam,” asked his companion, “ why are you 
so anxious to find this Saville ?” 

“ For the sake of his wife.” 

“ Nonsense ! His wife will shed no tears if you find 
him with a bullet through his head. If all is true that I 
have heard, she hates him like sin.” 

“ Far more than sin, mon ami,"' and the lantern that he 
held down that he might peer into a dead man’s face, re- 
vealed the traces of recklessness and dissipation in his own. 
“ Indeed, I scarcely think she hates sin at all. You are 
right, however, in one respect. No tears will be shed, if 
I can find him in the condition of this carrion here, unless 


266 


NEAI? TO NATURE'S HEART, 


they are tears of joy. Still, for her sake, I am looking for 
her husband ; and, I may add, for my own. Knowing 
how glad she would be to find him here, snoozing quietly 
in the eternal sleep of which he prates, I, as her proxy, am 
looking for him, as I promised. He is not among the 
wounded or prisoners, as far as I can learn ; if I cannot find 
him among the dead, he must have escaped, and we shall 
have reason to curse our luck.’' 

“ Well, if you find him here, and food for the crows, what 
then 

“ Then I invite you to my wedding.” 

“ Wedding, indeed ! I doubt that ! You are not one to 
trammel j ourself with a wife.” 

” I confess I have had prejudices against the holy state of 
matrimony, but any other relation with my present lovely 
charmer would involve half a dozen duels, and with good 
shots. I wouldn’t have a ghost of a chance in running the 
gauntlet, and so I must emulate the example of the good 
King David, and get her husband out of the way. I 
snatched a musket and fired at him twice to-day, but for 
once the devil did not help his own. ” 

“ By St. George I Vennam, I should think the devil 
would be afraid of you.” 

” Ha ! ha ! ha !” was the reckless response. ” Julie 
Saville Ashburton is not, and she is the most magnificent 
creature I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been something of a con- 
noisseur in several lands. Besides, she’s an heiress, which, 
to a man of my tastes, is no small consideration.” 

” By St. George ! Vennam, this turning up of dead 
men’s faces is grim business. I’m getting sick of it.” 

“ Well, well ! you are not playing for the stake that I 
am, so I don’t wonder. Perhaps I may find him in the 
morning. Hold ! who is that lying behind yonder big 
Hessian? That’s an officer’s uniform. 0 ye Plutonian 


THE WIFE'S QUEST AMONG THE DEAD. 267 

gods ! here he is ! dead, too, as the immortal Caesar. That 
bayonet-thrust would have killed an ox. Here’s to thee, 
Julie, and our wedding-bells and, drawing a flask of 
wine from his pocket, he drank deeply, and then passed it 
to his companion. 

“ And will the bells be rung soon V' 

“ Ay, that much we shall make her proud relations yield. 
Up to a certain point, she always has her own way. A 
soldier’s life is too uncertain to wait upon the slow forms 
of decorous custom. Besides, in this case, there will be no 
‘ funeral baked meats ’ to grow cold. There, V 11 take his 
sword, if I can withdraw it from this beastly Hessian, and 
that will be proof positive that I saw him dead. Farewell, 
now, most accommodating of husbands ! your sleep may 
be as * eternal ' as you like and the human ghoul, who 
had been feasting his eyes on the dead, disappeared, in the 
darkness, toward Fort Montgomery. 


268 


JV£AJ? TO NATURE'S HEART, 


CHAPTER XXIV. 
vera’s search among the dead. 

HE Sunday evening following the departure of Saville 



i had been to Vera one of peculiar sadness and de- 
pression. “ If I only had my dear old Bible,” she thought, 
“ and could turn to some of God’s promises, perhaps they 
would comfort and reassure me ; but, in a way that I can- 
not understand, they have grown vague, and He seems far 


Still, she again and again tried to lift her heart to heaven 
in prayer ; but the image of Saville would enter, and absorb 
every thought, and the presentiment of some evil or danger 
weighed down her spirits with increasing despondency. 

The night passed mainly in sleepless imaginings of what 
might happen ; but, with the light of Monday morning, she 
tried to throw off the incubus, and busy herself with the tasks 
which she knew were pleasing to him. 

She noted that her father appeared restless, and that he. at 
last took his rifle, and disappeared among the hills. 

About the middle of the forenoon she thought she heard, 
faint and far away, the report of fire-arms, but tried to 
ascribe the impression to her over-wrought and anxious 
state. But when the skirmishing commenced on the Orange 
Furnace road, and there was no longer room for doubt, her 
heart sank, with such an overwhelming foreboding of evil, 
that she almost fainted. 

But her native vigor and her strong affection for Saville 
soon banished all weakness. If her presentiment had any 


VERA'S SEARCH AMONG THE DEAD. 269 


foundation, it might be that even her hand could reach and 
minister to him. While Vera had inherited her mother's 
gentleness, she also had her readiness to suffer anything for 
the sake of one she loved. 

Summoning Tascar, she bade him prepare at once to ac- 
company her toward Fort Montgomery. 

“ Take a small ax, some food, and materials for kindling 
a fire," she said. 

At the same time she herself took some bandages, a flask 
of brandy that Saville had brought, and (what seemed a 
strange act in so gentle a maiden) she also concealed, in the 
folds of her dress, a keen-bladed hunting-knife. 

“ God grant I may have no use for this !" she sighed ; 
“ but I have been taught what some men are." 

By the time that the first report of the field-piece was 
echoing through the mountains, they were on their way. 

With a boldness which greatly taxed poor Tascar’ s cour- 
age, she approached so near the fort, that two or three half- 
spent cannon balls splintered the rocks a little below her 
hidden outlook. Her eyes dilated with horror, as she 
watched the bloody conflict that was taking place almost at 
her feet. Her keen eyesight enabled her to see men falling 
within the fort, as the strong north wind swept aside the 
smoke. At times she could scarcely resist the wild impulse 
to rush through the ranks of the intervening enemy, and 
assure herself that Saville was not among those who lay 
motionless within the ramparts, or who were being carried to 
a more sheltered position. Soon all became dusky and 
obscure in the early descending night. The lurid flashes 
grew more distinct, and these indicated that the besiegers 
were drawing continually nearer the besieged. As the lines 
of fire drew nearer and nearer, she pressed her hands upon 
her throbbing heart. Then there came a great shout. With 
lips parted, and eyes wild with terror, she sprang to the edg^ 


270 


JVEAI! TO NATURE'S HEART. 


of the cliff. A dark mass was entering the fort The flashes 
became intermingled, irregular ; they receded toward the 
river and the northeast side of the fort, and at last ceased. 

She sat down, and covered her face with her hands, as she 
moaned shudderingly, 

“ He is lying yonder, bleeding or dying. I feel it — I 
know it 1 O Tascar ! what shall we do 

But the poor boy could give no advice in this emergency. 

Voices approached, and soon a stream of fugitives escap- 
ing to the mountains began to pass near where they had 
posted themselves. 

“ Quick, Tascar V said Vera. “ Let us go to the edge 
of the path. You ask for Mr. Saville, and say you are his 
servant. I will hide within hearing. 

This plan was at once carried out. 

“ O God I grant that he may be among these who have 
survived,"’ she sighed. 

In response to Tascar s eager questions, several replied 
that they had seen Saville during the fight, but did not know 
where he was now. 

The last weary and wounded straggler seemingly had 
passed, and Vera’s hope was dying, when another step was 
heard, and a woman’s voice was heard complaining. 

“ I hope poor Larry’s aloive. I’ve tried so long to foind 
him, I’ve got ahint all the rest.” 

“ O Captain Molly !” began Tascar. 

“ Och 1 ye spalpeen ; how ye stharted me. Me nerves 
is all shuck up !” 

“ But, hab you seen Mas’r Saville ?” 

{ “Is ye the little nig he had a few days, and thin sent off 
in the mountings ?” 

“ Yeh ; and I wants to find him po’ful bad.” 

“I’m sorry to tell ye, I’ m afeard ye won’ t. God rest 

his sowl 1” 


VERA'S SEARCH AMONG THE DEAD. 27 1 


With a wild cry, Vera sprang out, and grasped the wom- 
an’s arm. 

“ Speak ; what do you mean ?” she demanded. 

“ Holy Vargin !” gasped Molly. “ I thought yees was 
a cat o’ the mountings. Be ye the one they call the white 
witch ?” 

“ No ; I’m a poor, orphaned girl ; and Mr. Saville was 
my brother — my only friend. Tell me, have you seen 
him ?” 

“ Now, bless the poor young crather’s heart, what kin I 
tell her ?’ ’ groaned Molly, turning away and beginning to 
sob. 

“ You have told me all,” said Vera, feeling as if turning 
into stone. “ He is dead.’* 

“ I’m afeard he is, unless the saints has kept him aloive 
for the good turn he did for sich a poor wicked divil as I 
be. He saved me life — he kilt the big Hessian as was 
killin’ me — ochone, ochone !” and Molly, in the exuber- 
ance of her feeling, sat down, and rocking herself back and 
forth, uttered a wild Irish wail of sorrow. 

Vera’s face grew almost as rigid as the granite on which 
she stood. After a few moments she said, 

“You say he saved your life ?” 

“ He did, ochone ! he did, God rest his sowl !” 

“ If any one had saved my life,’’ continued Vera, in a 
tone that was almost taunting, “ I would not sit down and 
weakly whine about him.” 

“ Now what dp ye mane by that ?” cried Molly, starting 
up, and dashing away her tears. 

“ I mean that if he saved your life, you ought to be will- 
ing to try to save his. You are a strong woman, and have 
lived among soldiers ; but I will see if you are as brave as 
a timid young girl. Will you go with me, and bring him 
away, dead or alive ?” 


273 


ATJSAJ^ TO NATURE'S HEART, 


“ Faix an’ I will,” cried Molly sturdily. ” I loikes this 
betther’n cryin’ about him. Besides, I know jist where to 
look for him. It was behint Larry’s gun he fell, and I could 
go there wid me eyes blinded. What’s more, no gal, nor 
man nayther, dares do what Molly O’Flarharty darsent. ” 

But Captain Molly’s heroic fire was suddenly quenched 
for a few moments ; for Vera threw herself upon her neck, 
with sobs that caused the young girl’s slight frame to quiver 
almost convulsively. 

“Ye poor little tender-hearted crather, ” said Molly, cry- 
ing in sympathy ; ” yees jist as human as I be ; and I, like 
a pig-headed fool, was a-thinkin’ ye was a witch ! Yees isn’t 
able to go on any sich dare-divil irrend as snatchin’ a body 
out o’ the jaws of that orful baste they call the British lion.” 

” Wait a moment,” said Vera, growing calm. ” I shall 
be the better for these tears. I am, indeed, but a weak 
child ; but for Mr, Saville I could die a thousand deaths. 
Come.” 

” Well,” said Molly, with a shrug, ” it’s only honest in 
me to risk one life for him, afther what he did for me. So 
I’m wid ye. ” 

” You hab been kind to my ole mudder, ” said Tascarj 
“ and I’ll go wid you, too. Mas’r Saville is po’lul heavy^ 
and’ll take a sight ob liftin’. ” 

” We must wait a bit,” said Molly, ” till them Britishers 
git the wounded gathered in. That’s what they are doin’ 
now where them lights is movin’ ’round.” 

“But they will carry him off to die somewhere else,” 
cried Vera, in great distress. 

“ No, child ; if they carry him off, the docthers’ll take 
care of him. So, if we doesn’t find him by the gun, ye kin 
comfort yer heart wid the thought that he’s doin’ well some- 
where. If we shud go down there now, before they all git 
aslape, they wud treat us moighty oncivil. ” 


SERA'S SEARCH AMONG THE DEAD. 273 


“You are right/' said Vera. “ But it is desperately hard 
to wait. ” 

“We hain’t ready to go yit/' continued Molly. “We 
must thry to rig up sumthin' to carry him on, or else I’ll 
have to stale a stretcher down there, and that may be risky. ’ ’ 

“ I know what you mean," said Vera, catching the 
thought quick as light. “ With Tascar’s help, I can soon 
make one. Tascar, cut two long straight poles." 

While the boy was obeying, Vera drew her hunting knife, 
and feeling around among the copse-wood, selected tough 
and very slender young saplings. Having secured a suffi- 
cient number, she twisted them back and forth across the 
poles, and secured them in their places with some librous 
bark, which she was not long in discovering. Never did 
her thorough wood craft serve a better purpose than in this 
emergency. 

“Ye’re a moighty handy little thing," said Molly. 
“ When did ye learn all these things ?"» 

“ My heart would teach my hands to do anything that is 
needful to-night. Can we not go now ?" 

“ Not jist yet. Sit down and rest yerself. ” 

“As if I could rest ! Oh ! do let us go. It will be a 
comfort to get a few inches nearer. What a wild night it 
promises to be ! ‘ The bleak winds do sorely ruffie. ’ " 

‘ ‘ All the betther lor us ! There’ll not be so many abroad. 
They’re gittin’ quiet, an’ I think we may stale up a bit 
toward the place now. We’ve got to take quite a woide 
turn, anyhow, to git around the creek, for they'll have 
guards at the bridges. I know a place down here on the 
right, where we kin git over." 

The strangely assorted group now started on their most 
perilous adventure, Molly leading, because familiar with 
the region, and Tascar bringing up the rear with the rude 
but strong stretcher which Vera had improvised. Molly’s 


274 


^r£AJ^ TO NATURE^S HEART. 


early years had made her perfectly familiar with the wild 
mountain region through which they must find a path, and 
she threaded her way quite as readily as Vera would have 
done in her own haunts. 

“I’ve fished up and down this creek often enough to 
know every inch of it,” said Molly, who was now as eager 
to serve Vera as she had once been to get her into trouble, 
for being so “ stuck up an’ oncivil loike and she was 
not long in leading her little party to a place where the 
shallow stream could be easily crossed. Then they ascended 
the further bank by a slanting path that led toward Fort 
Clinton. 

“We must git well up on the hill,” said Molly, “for 
they won’t be a-lookin’ for anybody on the mounting sides, 
and thin we kin crape intil the fort right by Larry’s gun. 
Ochone, Larry, me darlint ! I’ve been kind o’ rough on ye 
sometoimes, an’ if we both git through this wild night’s 
work, I’ll thry to be more aisy on ye. I tell you what ’tis. 
Miss Brown, when ye’re ‘ ’twixt the divil an’ the dape say,’ 
as I’ve heerd some o’ the sailor sogers spake, ye think on 
ivery oncivil thing ye iver said or did. May all the saints 
be wid us ! Faix, an’ they ought to be !” she concluded, 
with sudden emphasis. “ Ain’t we a-thryin’ to do as good 
a job as they iver did ?” 

By this time Molly had reached the end of her theology, 
and exhausted her sentiment ; but her practical energies and 
shrewdness seemed inexhaustible. With firm yet stealthy 
tread, she led them down into the neighborhood of the fort, 
and her familiarity with military life enabled her to suspect 
just where guards and sentinels would be placed. 

“ Their fires show that they’re down toward the river, 
loike, ” she whispered; “an’ that’s good for us, too. If 
they git afther us, we must cut roight back on the path we 
come, as no one could foller it who didn’t know it. Now 


VERA'S SEARCH AMONG THE DEAD. 


275 


Step loight, an’ keep yer mouths shut, for we’re gittin’ tick- 
lish near. ” 

Fortunately, the early part of the night was so dark that 
they must have stumbled immediately upon some one to be 
observed. As they approached quite near the fort, they 
heard a sentinel walking his beat. As his steps receded 
they slipped by, and sprang down into the ditch under the 
parapet, and then crouched a few moments, scarcely daring 
to breathe. 

“ Give me yer knife,” whispered Molly. ” I’ve stuck 
many a pig in my day, an’ I’ll stick a Hessian — ^yes, two 
or three on ’em — afore they’ll git sich a holt on me as that 
big feller had as is lyin’ dead over there.” 

Vera shuddered, but complied. 

“ Now,” continued Molly, slowly rising, ” let me git my 
bear in’s, so we kin climb in jist beside Larry’s gun.” 

The dark outline of the mountain soon satisfied her how 
to proceed, and she said, ” Come around this way a bit. ” 

Stumbling, with thrills of horror, over the dead that lay in 
the fosse, Vera followed. Suddenly Molly whispered, 

” Hist, down !” 

Footsteps approached, but died away again. 

“ Now wait a bit where ye are. I think this is the gun, 
and kin tell soon as I fale of it. Ah ! ye ould bulldog, 
this is ye, thrue anuff. I made ye bite ’em the last toime, 
didn’t I, ye good ould baste?” 

Vera was at her side instantly, whispering, ” Was it here 
he fell ? Oh ! quick, quick ! I cannot endure this sus- 
pense a moment longer.” 

“Not too fast, or we may spoil iverythin’ yit. I’llcloimb 
up this side o’ the gun, an ye on that side. Let the bhoy 
bide down here till we call him. Aisy loike, now,” she 
cautioned, as Vera, with a bdlind, was up beside the can- 
non. “ Let us look over and listen.” 


276 


TO NATURE'S HEART 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE WOMAN IN VERA AWAKES. 

I N falling, Saville was not so stunned but that he had 
sufficient presence of mind to make the huge Hessian 
he had killed a sort of rampart against the thronging enemy, 
and the man who had bajoneted him was carried forward 
with the impetuous advance of the victors. He was well 
content to be somewhat trampled, instead of receiving an- 
other thrust which would pin him to the earth. 

Almost his first thought was, “ Vera’s dream comes true. 
I am desperately wounded, perhaps dying ; and she, poor 
child, in sad truth, can never find me here.” 

As the rush of battle swept away elsewhere, so that he 
could venture to move, he tried, by feeling, to learn the 
nature of his wound, and found, with a thrill of hope, that 
a thick memorandum-book in his breast-pocket had caused 
the bayonet to glance from his vitals into his shoulder, in- 
flicting what seemed only a flesh wound. 

He soon became aware, however, that it v/as a deep one, 
and that he was losing blood rapidly. His main hope now 
was, that he might not become unconscious before the sur- 
geons gathered up the wounded ; and yet he now dared 
show no sign of life, or assume any position that would 
attract notice ; for the brutal Hessian soldiery were raging 
around the fort, often striking down the wounded who 
begged for mercy ; so he thrned over upon his face, and 
thus passed for one of the dead. When it became evident 


THE WOMAN IN VERA A WANES. 


277 


to the British officers that all resistance was over, they called 
off the “ dogs of war,” and soon none were left near Saville 
except those as helpless as himself. He now ventured to 
turn over again, and then tried to sit up, but found himself 
too weak. 

Not far away, he heard -a wounded man repeating to him- 
self the text the chaplain had chosen the previous evening : 

‘‘lam the resurrection and the life ; he that believeth in 
me, though he were dead, yet shall he live : 

‘ ‘ And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never 
die. ’ ’ 

“ Poor fellow !” thought Saville ; “ believing that, he 
can die easily, and, after ceasing to be, can have no dis- 
appointment over his illusion. And yet, situated as we are, 
one might well wish that it were all true. Oh ! that a sur- 
geon would come.” 

The surgeon was coming, but his blood and strength 
were ebbing fast. In the fierce excitement of the day, he 
had eaten scarcely anything ; and this abstinence, together 
with his previous night of toil and the loss of blood, made 
a fearful drain upon his vital powers. When, a little later, 
the light of a lantern was carelessly flashed upon his pallid 
face, the man who held it muttered, ‘‘ Pie’s done for,” and 
passed on to those giving signs of life. 

The deep swoon lasted while his wife’s lover feasted his 
murderous eyes upon him. 

Had Vera’s prayers received no answer ? Why had he 
seemed like the dead, when a man stood over him who 
would have stamped out the faintest apparent spark of life ? 
Why does he revive again, now that Vera is stealing toward 
the fort ? 

Slowly he became conscious of what had happened, of 
his desperate situation. He' felt that the deep sighs that 
heaved his breast caused the slight remnant of his blood to 


278 NEA/? TO NATURE'S HEART 

ooze more rapidly. He was now sure that he would 
die. 

“Poor mother 1“ he groaned. “Dear, kind mother I 
you will have a dreary old age. ’ ’ 

A light step was gliding swiftly toward him. 

“ O Vera !“ he murmured ; “ my more than sister, my 
heart’s true mate 1 How can I enter on my long, dream- 
less sleep, and leave you waking and suffering?” 

She knelt beside him, sobbing. 

“ Theron, I have found you ! Thank God !” 

“ Is this real ?” he said, in a husky voice. 

“ It is — feel my warm hand ; it’s strong as a man’s to 
rescue you ! There are others here to help. Courage I 
O God ! spare him, spare him, or let me die also I” 

“ Hist, aisy now,” warned Molly. “ Kapeall yees perty 
sayins till we’re out o’ this divil’s nest o’ Hessians. Give 
him some brandy, while I call the bhoy wid the sthretcher.” 

As Vera put the flask to his lips, she whispered, 

“You will live ; you will not die, and break my heart ?” 

“If mind has any power over matter, I will live,” he 
said doggedly, “and more for your sake than my own. 
From henceforth my life is yours, my peerless Vera. How, 
in the name of wonder, have you reached me ?“ 

‘ ‘ Don’ t speak now. Save every atom of strength. Lay 
the stretcher here, Tascar. Lift him gently now with me.“ 
And, as if endowed with tenfold her usual power, she put 
her arms under his shoulders, and lifted him on the green 
boughs that she had twined for the purpose. 

“You are an angel of mercy,” said Saville. 

“ Hush 1 Now, Molly !“ 

“ Git out o’ the way, ye bloody spalpeen !” snarled 
Molly, giving the poor Hessian whom Saville had slain a 
contemptuous push with her foot. “I’m glad ye got yer 
desarts. ’ ’ 


THE WOMAN IN VERA A WANES. 279 

With some difficulty they made their way over the parapet 
and fosse with their burden, and then started rapidly for the 
hills. When a little beyond the sentinel, Tascar stepped 
on a dry stick, which cracked sharply. 

“ Who goes there ?” challenged the sentinel instantly. 

“ Whist ! let the stretcher down a minute. If he comes 
to see, ril fix him and she went back a few feet, and 
crouched like a panther at the side of the path. 

As there were no further sounds, the man evidently 
thought that it was some animal in the woods, and con- 
tinued walking his beat. 

With throbbing hearts and stealthy tread, they again 
pressed on, Molly following, with the hunting-knife, as a 
sort of rear-guard ; and they soon breathed freer, with a 
growing sense of security. 

“ Let me spell ye now,*’ said Molly to Vera. “I’ve got 
a stronger back, if not a stouther heart, than yees.” 

They were not very long in reaching the place where the 
ax, provisions, and material for kindling a fire had been left. 
Vera took up these, and for an hour they toiled on, with 
frequent rests. Saville often essayed to speak, but Vera en- 
joined silence, and, when he grew faint, she put the flask to 
his lips. 

At last they found a secluded place, quite out of the 
course that any of the fugitives would take, and hidden from 
the enemy in the forts by intervening hills. A brook ran 
near, and Saville’ s thirst was growing very painful. Vera 
thought they might venture to rest here, and kindle a fire. 
They were all desperately weary, and in need of food. 
Saville, also, was growing so weak that he might again be- 
come unconscious. Vera asked Molly to help Tascar gather 
dry wood, saying that she would wait on Mr. Saville, for 
she esteemed this so great a privilege that she was unwilling 
to share it 


28 o 


TO NATURE'S HEART, 


“ Never was there such music, excepting your voice, 
Vera, as the babble of that brook,” said Saville feebly. “ I 
have heard of the thirst of the wounded, but did not know 
what it was before. ’ ' 

Taking a cup from the bundle she had carried Vera soon 
placed a cool draught to his lips. He held her hand, as he 
drank eagerly. 

“ Oh ! that gives me life,” he said. “ Did you mutter 
any potent words over this cup ?” 

“ My every breath is a prayer for you,” she said. 

‘ ‘ It seems to me that you are answering your own pray- 
ers, my sweet divinity. I shall worship you while I have 
breath to pray or praise. ” 

“ Your mind is wandering, Mr. Saville.” 

“ Never from you.” 

“ Hush ! you must not talk.” 

“ Like all other devotees, I find it easier to worship than 
to obey.” 

“ Please don’t speak in this manner, Mr. Saville. I am 
so grateful to God for having spared you that your words 
pain me. ” 

“ And I am so grateful to you that I can scarcely find 
words that mean enough. May 1 live to show you how I 
feel 1 Do not call me Mr. Saville any more.” 

“ Do you not think I had better try to dress your wound 
by the light of the fire, Theron ?’ ’ 

“ Yes, do ; your very touch is healing.” 

She took out her bandages, and bade Tascar heap light 
wood on the fire. Then, laying her sharp hunting-knife 
within reach, she set about her delicate and difficult task. 
But her beautiful face, as she bent over him, revealed only 
the deepest solicitude for him, and not a particle of embar- 
rassing self-consciousness. She first took from his pocket the 
torn and deeply indented little memorandum-book. 


THE WOMAN IN VERA A WANES. 


281 


“ Theron, ” she exclaimed, “ this saved your life V’ 

“ I think it did. It was fortunate that it was in that 
pocket instead of the other.’' 

“ Fortunate ! Oh ! why do you use such meaningless 
words ? It was so much more than fortunate ! Will you 
give the book to me 

“Yes.” 

She pressed her lips upon it, and hid it in her bosom. 

Then Molly and Tascar were surprised to hear Saville’s 
audible laugh, but tears were in Vera’s eyes. 

“Alack!” she sighed, dashing them away; “I am a 
foolish child, and not equal to this work. I must cut your 
coat, Theron.” 

“Yes,” said he; “pass your knife up my sleeve ; cut 
all away around my throat. It will not do for me to move 
much. I can direct you somewhat, for I know a little of 
surgery. On entering the service I foresaw wounds, but no 
such blissful experience as this. ” 

“ Only speak in directing me,” said Vera, deftly doing 
his bidding. “ Oh ! what an awful gash I” and for a 
moment she covered her face with her hands. 

“ I tell you I am going to live, Vera. I feel it in every 
nerve and fiber of my body. How does the cut run ?” 

“ Across the upper part of your breast, into your 
shoulder. ’ ’ 

“You see it is a flesh wound merely. Remove only the 
clots of blood that prevent you from pressing the sides of 
the cut together. Now bandage as tightly as you can 
around my shoulder. There, that is right. How infinitely 
different your touch is from that of a half-drunk British 
surgeon ! Suppose that in your place, my dainty Ariel, 
my ministering spirit, a broad-faced Hessian butcher were 
bending over me, bungling away with fingers as hard as 
his heart ! That will do. Now cover all up well, so 


282 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


there may be no danger of my taking cold, and then rest 
yourself. ’ ’ 

“ I will rest when you are out of danger. You must take 
some food now. ’ ’ 

“ Not much. We must run no risk of inflammation. ” 

Again she brought water from the brook, and dipping the 
hard, dry bread into it, fed him as she would a child. She 
saw that his head did not rest comfortably, and so she lifted 
it gently into her lap. But, as she did so, there came a 
warmer glow into her face than the ruddy firelight war- 
ranted. 

‘ ‘ I will waken you, ’ ’ she said, ‘ ‘ when it is time to re- 
sume our journey home. " 

“ Home ! How sweet that word sounds, as you speak 
it!” 

” Hush I hush 1” 

“ Well, then, good-night, Vera. This is not the dream- 
less sleep that I was dreading in Fort Clinton.” And 
almost instantly he sank into quiet slumber. 

Molly and Tascar, as soon as they found that they could 
do nothing more to serve Vera, had thrown themselves down 
by the fire, and were soon in deep oblivion. But the young 
girl, with eyes as clear and steady as the stars which now 
shone brightly, watched through the silent hours. 

She had never had less inclination to sleep. There was 
a strange, delicious tumult in her heart. She thought it 
was gladness and gratitude for Saville’s escape. She thought 
it was hope lor the future. She would understand, by-and- 
by, that it was far more. A hand was on the door of the 
inner chamber of her heart. Its silence was broken by a 
voice whose echoes would never cease. During the agony, 
the fear, the awful suspense, of that eventful day, Vera had 
ceased to be a child, and had become a woman — strong to 
act and to suffer. And now that the man, on whom she 


THE WOMAN IN VERA A WANES. 


283 


had leaned as might a younger sister, and whom she regarded 
as a superior being, far beyond and above her, had become 
utterly helpless — dependent on her for existence — woman- 
like, she began to love him as only a woman could love, 
and with the same spirit of self sacrifice and self-forgetful- 
ness which had been the characteristic of her mother. 

Innocent love is happiness ; it brings its own reward ; 
and the more unselfish it is, the more profoundly it satisfies. 

The world began to grow more beautiful to Vera, even 
on that chill autumn night, and the sounds of nature to 
make sweet chords with the new and mysterious impulses of 
her heart. The brook sang to her as of old, when she was 
a child ; but now with richer, deeper meanings ; the chirp 
of the crickets seemed cheery and companionable ; the light 
of the stars grew kindly and sympathetic. A stag, attracted 
by the fire, came and stood in the outer circle of light, and 
gazed at her a moment with his large, wistful, questioning 
eyes. With something of her old mirthfulness, she shook 
her finger at him, as if he were an unruly child, that might 
disturb the sleeper over whom she was watching, and the 
timid creature bounded away. 

The hours passed swiftly, with strange, happy thoughts 
and fancies flashing up in her mind, as little understood as 
the mysterious aurora that was illuminating the northern 
sky. 

The young girl was consciously puzzled by the fact that 
she was beginning to look forward to Saville’s awakening 
with something like shyness and embarrassment ; her heart 
fluttered at the very thought. Heretofore, she had lifted 
her eyes and face to his with no more self-consciousness 
than that of a flower opening to the morning sun. And 
yet, that which she half dreaded she anticipated with a new 
and vague delight. 

Her finger often sought his pulse, and her confidence in- 


284 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 


creased, as she found that it was quiet and even, though 
feeble. 

As dawn began to tinge the eastern horizon, he seemed to 
grow uneasy. His brow contracted heavily, and, bending 
down, she heard him mutter, 

‘ ‘ Stand aside ; your power to curse my life has gone. ’ ’ 

Then, after a little, his face became calm and quiet for a 
while. But soon another painful dream disturbed him, and 
from broken words and sentences it was evident that he was 
living over the terrible scenes in Fort Clinton. Suddenly he 
said, quite plainly, 

“ Vera, my heart’s true mate, how can I leave ” and 

he started up, and looked wildly around for a moment. 

“Theron,” said Vera gently, “it’s only a dream ; and 
dreams, you told me, ‘ go by contraries.’ ’’ 

He looked at her earnestly a moment, and then asked, 
“ What has happened ?’’ 

“ I dreamt that you would be wounded, and alas I it 
came true. I also dreamt that I could not find you ; but, 
thank God 1 the contrary was true. ’ ’ 

“Oh, yes; it all comes back to me now. You found 
me dying in the fort.’’ 

“ But you promised to live,’’ said Vera, with a sudden 
chill of fear. 

“ Did I ? My head is confused. Will you please give 
me a little water ?’’ 

Trembling with apprehension, she hastened to the stream, 
and returned with the cool and refreshing water. This 
awakening was so different from what she expected. 

After taking the water he seemed better, and his eyes 
sought hers wistfully and questioningly. 

“lam very weak,’’ he said ; “ you must be patient with 
me. ’’ 

“ O Theron ! live ! live ! that is all I ask !’’ 




Have YOU r.EEN Watching over me all the long Night? 






THE WOMAN IN FEE A A WANES. 285 

“ I feel that I shall, Vera ; but it may be long before I 
am well. You were holding my head when I awoke. ” 

“ Let me support it again,” she said blushing, and she 
lifted his head into her lap. 

” I want to see your face.” 

” No, no,” she answered hastily ; ” look at the beautiful 
dawn yonder. ’ ’ 

” Your face is to me more beautiful and more full of 
hope than the morning. Are you sure that you are well ? 
I have had such painful dreams. Please let me see you and 
reassure myself. ’ ’ 

She moved so as to comply with his wish, and as he fixed 
his eyes eagerly upon her face, it drooped, and a warmer 
light stole into it than glowed in the eastern sky. 

” I do see the dawn in your face, ” he said, ” and it grows 
more lovely every moment. Have you heen watching over 
me all the long night ?” 

‘‘ It has not seemed long,” she faltered. 

” Vera !” 

She raised her eyes timidly to his, but they soon fell again 
before his ardent gaze. 

” Vera, your face contains the true elixir of life, I shall 
get well, never fear !” 

” O Theron ! I am so glad — so very happy. But if you 
cannot sleep any more, had we not better try to get home ?” 

” Yes,” he replied, in a voice of deep content ; ” take 
me home.” 

She was glad to escape. Arousing Tascar and Molly, 
they were soon on their way to the secluded mountain gorge, 
in which was the rude cabin, which, to Saville, promised to 
be a haven of rest such as he had never known before. 


286 


NEAR TO NATURE’S HEART. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 
vera’s only crime. 

A fter a toilsome, difficult journey, during which 
Saville’s wound became very painful, they reached 
the cabin. Old Gula met them with a scared expression 
on her wrinkled face, but was overjoyed at finding Tascar 
and Vera safe. 

“ I’se had an orful time, ” she said. “Strange, loud 
voices, speakin’ among de hills, an’ I didn’t know what 
dey mean. Den Mas’r Brown come home wild and drefful, 
a*cryin’ dat all was lost. Den he sat a long time like a 
stun. All on a sudden he ask, ‘ Whare’s Vera ? ’ I telled 
him dat you took Tascar, and went away yesterday mornin’. 
And he began to go on orfully agin, and took de big gun 
and went arter you: ’ ’ 

“ Well,” said Vera, with a sigh, “if he does not come 
soon, I will try to find him. Mr. Saville has been badly 
wounded, and we must all do our best for him. You get us 
some breakfast. Tascar, make a fire on the hearth in the 
cabin, and then help your mother. Molly, will you help 
me carry Mr. Saville in ?’* 

They laid him down on the cabin floor, and Vera brought 
a pillow, saying, as she placed it under his head, “You are 
at home, Theron, ’ ’ and was well rewarded by his contented 
smile. 

One end of the cabin had been partitioned off into two 
apartments. In one of these a couch was prepared for 


VERA'S ONLY CRIME. 287 

Saville ; but, as they were about to carry him thither, Mr. 
Brown entered in strong excitement, exclaiming, 

“ Great God ! Vera. What does this mean ?” 

“ Hush, father !” 

“Are you bent on my destruction? Why have you 
brought this strange woman here ?“ 

‘ ‘ I’m not so moighty strange,” snapped Moliy. 

“ Mr. Brown,” said Saville, in his old, significant tone. 

The exile turned tremblingly to him. 

‘‘You are safe, as I told you, just as long as you do ex- 
actly as I direct. Sit down there and rest, and all will be 
well.” 

The man obeyed, but was evidently dissatisfied, and 
under great perturbation. 

Before the day was over, both Vera and Saville were satis- 
fied that the services of a surgeon would be required. Molly 
was anxious to depart, that she might find her husband, 
Larry. Vera therefore decided, without consulting her 
father, to send Tascar with her across the mountains to New 
Windsor, Molly thought that all who had escaped from 
the forts would probably be in that region, and said that 
she knew the way well, after she got down near to the river ; 
so it was arranged that they should go early the next morn- 
ing. 

Saville slept a great deal of the time, and seemed strength- 
ened by the nourishing broth which Gula made for him. 
His deep content, and the anticipation of Vera’s society and 
care, did more than anything else to forward recovery. 

The next morning, Molly and Tascar departed. Vera 
accompanied them, and directed the boy to blaze the trees 
until the path became plain. Molly did not tell Vera that 
she had learned from her husband a great deal about 
Saville’s previous life, nor did she hint that he had a wife 
living in New York. The redoubtable “ captain’s” ideas 


288 


JVEAJ? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


concerning morals were rather confused, at best ; but, in 
this case, she acted in accordance with such light as she had, 
and her reasoning was simple, if not correct. Saville had 
saved her life ; and, whether he was right or wrong, she 
was in honor bound not to put a straw in his way ; and, 
from what Larry had told her about Saville’s wife, she felt 
that no one had a truer right than he to find a better one. 

Toward the close of the following day Tascar returned, 
and, to Vera’s great joy, was accompanied by her old 
acquaintance, Surgeon Jasper. He pronounced Saville’s 
wound severe, but not dangerous, if he had good care and 
nursing ; “ and that, I know, he will get,” he added, with 
a glance that brought the rich color into Vera’s face, which, 
for some reason that she could not understand, was now so 
ready to come and go. 

‘‘ I am here, prepared to stay a few days,” said the kind 
surgeon ; ‘ ‘ and when I leave, good living and sleep will be 
all that are needed, I think.” 

” How can I repay you?” exclaimed Vera, taking his 
hand. 

” No occasion for thanks,” was the brusque reply. 

‘ ‘ This is my business, and we can’ t afford to lose such good 
soldiers as Saville.” 

Her father chafed greatly, at first, when he found that an- 
other stranger had learned of his hiding-place, but the man 
was so genial and frank, and the fact that he had been at the 
bedside of Vera’s mother partially reconciled the exile to his 
presence. The surgeon, also, raised his hopes that the 
American cause was not hopelessly lost, as he had believed ^ 
on the capture of the forts. 

Under skilled treatment, Saville’s wound healed rapidly, 
and he was soon able to sit up before the fire on the ample 
hearth of the cabin. The genial surgeon was the life of the 
party during the long autumn evenings, and to Vera these 


VESA'S ONLY CRIME. 289 

hours were ever remembered as among the happiest of her 
life. 

Whenever it was possible, she found Saville’s eyes follow- 
ing her with an expression that warmed her very soul ; but 
she, in her innocence, imagined that his rapid recovery was 
the cause of the springs of joy welling up in her heart. 

But, as Saville grew stronger, he often fell into gloomy 
fits of musing, which perplexed and distressed her. She 
also noted a troubled expression on the surgeon’s face, as 
some little act on the part of Saville suggested that his feel- 
ings were warmer than gratitude or friendship inspired. 

Jasper knew that Saville had a wife, and, moreover, that 
she was a wife only in name. He felt that Vera was too 
fine a girl to be trifled with ; but as she was situated, the 
man to whom she had unconsciously given her heart might 
do more to make than mar her happiness. At any rate, the 
surgeon, who was a man of the world, concluded that it was 
not his business to interfere, and so at last took his departure 
in his wonted jovial manner. 

“ I suppose you won’t thank me, Saville,” he said, ” for 
taking you away from this fairies’ bower ; but 1 shall report 
to the governor that you will be fit for duty in a month.” 

” I shall not forget that I am a soldier,” said the young 
man, flushing ; ” and you may see me in less time.” 

After the surgeon’s departure, Saville’s moody fits did 
not cease, but rather increased. While he was exceedingly 
kind and gentle, Vera saw that he was passing under some 
kind of restraint ; his eyes did not seek hers with the old, 
frank, ardent expression ; and, at times, she observed him 
regarding her furtively, and with such a sad, wistful look, 
that she began to shed tears in secret, though, with womanly 
instinct, she tried to appear cheerful, and blind to all 
changes in him. 

But when his growing distress of mind began to retard his 


290 


TO NATURE'S HEART, 


recovery, she felt that she could endure it no longer. One 
day, when he scarcely tasted some delicate birds which she 
had shot for him, she burst into tears, and said, 

‘ ‘ Theron, what is the matter ? I can shut my eyes to 
the truth no longer. Something is preying upon your mind. 
You have a deeper wound than that which Surgeon Jasper 
healed. For the last few days, you have failed, rather than 
gained, in health."’ 

He grew very pale, and did not immediately answer. 

“ I do not ask to know the cause of your trouble,” she 
continued ; ‘ ‘ for you would tell me if you thought best ; 
but I cannot endure to see you suffer. If there is anything 
that a poor, friendless young girl like myself can do, I pray 
you, speak plainly. Believe me, I would think any self- 
sacrifice that would serve you a privilege.” 

“ Any sacrifice, Vera ?” 

” Any, any that you can ask,” she replied eagerly. 

But, looking into her pure, innocent face, and rem m- 
bering how totally ignorant she was of the world’s harsh 
judgment, his own manhood rose up to defend her. 

He took both of her hands in his, and said, very gently, 
“I believe you, my dearest sister; you are unselfishness 
itself. But no cruel self-sacrifice on your part would help 
me. Some day I will tell you what is troubling me. I can- 
not now. The miserable and misgoverned world, of which 
you know so little, often brings to those who must be out 
in it many hard problems to solve. Rest assured, if I need 
your help, I will ask it, and would rather have it than that 
of any other living being. Now take your gun, and get me 
some more birds, and at supper I will try to do better.” 

She saw that he wished to be alone, and so, sorely per- 
plexed and heavy-hearted, she complied. 

After she was gone, Saville grappled with the strongest 
temptation which life had yet brought him. In the eye of 


VERA'S ONLY CRIME. 


291 


the law, he had a wife, and could not marry Vera, and yet 
he loved her with the whole intensity of his nature. From 
the hour, also, when she blushed under his searching glance 
in the early dawn, at the time of their bivouac in the moun- 
tains, he had thought she was learning to give him a warmer 
affection than that of a sister. In his weakness and inability 
to think connectedly, this hope had filled him with a sort of 
delirium of happiness ; but he had soon commenced asking 
himself how this mutual.regard must end. 

With his French education, and as an honest adherent to 
the creed that the impulses of nature should be man’s only 
law, he required no priestly sanction to his love ; but could 
have said to Vera,, in all sincerity, “ My heart claims you ; 
my reason approves the choice. I cannot help my past folly, 
but know that I am acting wisely now. I will ever be your 
true lover. I will be such a husband as love can make me, 
and such as mere form and law cannot.” 

While all this was true, he also clearly saw that Vera in 
remembrance of her mother’s teaching and example, and 
with her faith in the Bible, and in the Being whose will she 
believed that book revealed, would not look upon any such 
relation in the light in which it appeared to him. Although 
the young girl had proved her readiness to sacrifice her life 
for him, there had always been something in her words and 
manner which led him to doubt greatly whether he could 
induce her to violate her conscience, even though that which 
he asked seemed perfectly right to him. 

In justice to Saville, it should be said, that though he re- 
garded her faith as an utter delusion, he would not wish her 
to do anything which she thought wrong ; and, although 
he could honestly declare his love, he felt that it would be a 
base thing to ask her to reward it, since she could not do so 
without great moral wrong to herself. 

There were, besides, other very important considerations. 


292 


JVEA/^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


He had always promised Vera, and had sincerely proposed 
to secure for her, a recognized and respected place in so- 
ciety. If she listened to his suit, this would be impossible. 

She was defenseless, friendless, more than orphaned. She 
trusted him implicitly, and, as a man of honor, he found 
that he could come to but one conclusion. He must be 
true to her interests, at any and every cost to himself. 

“Am I equal to this?” he groaned, and he strode up 
and down the little cabin in such agony, that great beaded 
drops came out upon his forehead. 

At last he sat down, and covered his face with his hands, 
while his mind went rapidly over the past. In imagination, 
he saw the timid maiden venturing down into the dark fort, 
where on every side a fate worse than death threatened, that 
she might rescue him. 

“ I am a base wretch to hesitate,” he cried ; “ but would 
that I had died there, rather than have lived to suffer this ! 
She shall not surpass me in self sacrifice, however. I will 
place her as high in society as a brother’s love can raise her, 
and then, if the burden grows too heavy, I can soon enter 
on the dreamless sleep from which she recalled me. O hating 
and hateful wife ! even your malignity would be satisfied if 
you could see me now.” 

Vera returned empty-handed. “ My hand trembled so 
that I could not shoot,” she said. “lam very sorry.” 

“ Never mind, little sister ; I am better now, and do not 
need anything,” he said soothingly, for he saw that her 
heart was full. 

“Better!” she cried, with tears starting to her eyes. 

You are but the ghost of your old sell. I never saw you 
so pale, and you look years older than when I left you an 
hour ago.” 

“ You are tired and depressed, Vera. Come and sit down 
by me on your low bench, and see if I cannot cheer you.” 


VERA*S ONLY CRIME, 293 

She gave him a wistful, questioning look, which he found 
it hard to meet. 

Making a strong effort at self-control, she complied with 
his wish, and for a few moments neither spoke. Again and 
again she would look at him, with the same childlike, ques- 
tioning manner. 

“ What is it, little sister V he at last asked. 

For some reason, this term, which had once seemed so 
sweet and endearing, but which of late he had seldom em- 
ployed, now chilled her heart with fear. His face, though 
very kind, had a strong, resolved expression. She felt as if 
a viewless but impassable barrier were growing up between 
them. While at her side, and holding her hand, he still 
seemed far off and receding. He called her his “ dear little 
sister,'^ and yet she would rather that he should say simply, 
Vera, in the tone in which he had spoken her name, when, 
after her night’s watch, she had raised her downcast eyes to 
his. She neither understood herself nor him, but her heart 
craved for more than mere brotherly affection ; and now that 
he sought to manifest only this, he rudely jarred the deepest 
and most sensitive chord of her being. When he again 
asked, in a gentle, soothing tone, as he might speak to a 
child, “ Tell me what troubles you, sister Vera. Speak as 
frankly as if I were indeed your brother,” she bowed her 
head upon his knee, and sobbed as if her heart would break. 

“I don’t know what is the matter,” she faltered. “It 
seems as if you were miles away from me, and that some- 
thing dreadful is going to happen.” 

A spasm of pain crossed his face, for he interpreted her 
feelings far better than she could herself ; and he learned, 
as never before, how penetrating a loving woman’s intui- 
tions often are. 

Suddenly she asked, “Are you going to leave me, 
Theron T ’ 


294 JV-EA/^ TO NATURES HEART. 

He had about decided to tell her the whole truth, and 
show the necessity of his course, when her father entered the 
cabin. Before doing so, he had marked his daughter’s atti- 
tude and distress, also Saville’s caresses as he stroked her 
bowed head. He said nothing, however, but sat down in 
his accustomed place, with the deepest gloom lowering upon 
his haggard face. 

Vera was about to move hastily away, but Saville retained 
her at his side, saying, 

“ No, Vera ; no one has a better right here than you.” 

For a little time they all remained silent. Vera made 
desperate efforts to gain the mastery of her feelings, though 
with but partial success ; for she felt that some blow was 
impending, which she could not avoid, and yet from which 
she shrank in sickening dread. 

At last Saville began, in a quiet, steady voice, 

” Mr. Brown, I have so far recovered from my wound 
that I ought soon to report for duty again. I feel that it 
would be very wrong to leave you here in this remote and 
lonely place. I tremble as I think of what might happen 
in case of sickness or accident. Moreover, the country is 
filled with lawless, reckless men, as you have learned, to 
your sorrow.” 

The exile sprang up, and commenced pacing the room in 
great excitement, but Saville continued firmly, 

” You owe it to Vera to place her in a more secure po- 
sition. This wild mountain gorge is no place for her. She 
is fitted to shine among the highest and best, and I think 
I can say, without boasting, that I have the influence to 
place her there. All that ” 

A harsh, bitter laugh interrupted him, and her father 
said, 

” Mr. Saville, you are unequaled at sarcasm.” 

The young man rose and faced the speaker, and Vera, 


VEJ^A'S ONLY CRIME, 


295 


also, stood tremblingly at his side. “ I mean every word 
I say. I can he began earnestly. 

“ Mr. Saville/ * again interrupted the exile, “ your words 
are worse than useless. It is time you learned the truth. 
For the sake of the past, in memory of what my daughter 
braved in your behalf, you will at least leave us unmolested, 
after you learn who and what we are. Blinded as I am by 
remorse and fear, I have still marked your growing affection 
for Vera ; and though I am but a wreck — a miserable frag- 
ment of a man — I have still some sense of honor and justice 
left. You are a gentleman, sir. I knew that from the 
first ; and it is not right that you should associate with 
such as we are any longer.’" 

“You are talking wildly, sir. You are not yourself,” 
Saville answered soothingly. 

“ I am speaking terrible truth,"" continued the unhappy 
man. “ Whatever else has failed in me, memory has not, 
and it is my hourly and relentless scourge. But enough of 
this. It is sufficient to say that we are outcasts. A curse is 
resting on us, which must die with us. This is no place for 
you, and you will bear me witness, that I never sought to 
draw you within the deadly shade of my destiny. I have 
but one favor to ask — that you leave us to perish as remote 
from human knowledge as possible."" 

“I cannot do this,” cried Saville, quite off his guard. 

* ‘ Why are you outcasts ? What crime has this innocent 
maiden committed, that I should heartlessly leave her to so 
horrible a fate ?’" 

“ What crime has she committed ? The same as that of 
her poor, fond mother, the crime of belonging to me, and 
of being a part of me. Would you ally yourself — would 
you even associate — with the daughter of one of the worst 
criminals on the face of the earth ?” 

With a faint cry, Vera fell to the floor, as if struck down 


296 


NEAR TO A^A TURNS HEART 


by a resistless blow. Saville instantly lifted her up, say- 
ing, 

“ Don’t grieve so, darling. He charges you with no 
fault, only misfortune.” 

Her father looked at him in great surprise for a moment, 
and then said, 

“ Well, since you differ so greatly from the rest of the 
world, you may take her away, where her relation to me 
may never be known. If she could escape from under the 
curse which crushed her mother, I would esteem it a bound- 
less favor. For me there is no hope.” 

“Will you go with me, Vera?” asked Saville gently, 
pressing her closer to his heart. 

“ Go, Vera, go, since he is willing to take you,” said her 
father earnestly. “ The thought that you were safe and 
happy would render the miserable remnant of my life more 
endurable.” 

Vera’s sobs ceased speedily, and she became very quiet. 
After a moment or two, she raised her head from Saville’ s 
shoulder, and said distinctly, 

“ No, I will not leave you. You are my father, and my 
dying mother commended you to my care.” 

“ O God !” exclaimed her father, “ that I should have 
brought down the curse on two such hearts ! My punish- 
ment is greater than I can bear. ’ ’ 

“ Theron,” continued Vera, drawing away from him, 
and trying to steady herself in her weakness and strong emo- 
tion, “ the blow has fallen ; I have felt it coming all day. 
We must indeed part ; there is no help for it, for my duty 
is here. You must leave us to our fate ; for, as father says, 
you cannot continue to associate with such as we are.” 

“ Leave you !” he cried, drawing her closely to his side, 
and looking down into her pale face with an honest, manly 
flush of indignation on his. “ May every plague in nature 


VEI^A'S ONLY CRIME. 


297 


fall on my dishonored head if 1 do ! You are rightly called 
‘ Vera/ for a truer heart than yours never beat ; and I am 
not such a fool as to lose it. I shall not ask her to leave 
you, sir/’ he said, addressing her father. “ But I charge 
you, by the memory of your dead wife, and as you value 
your safety, to place no obstacle in my way, as I seek to 
make her happy in this, her mountain home.” 

“Theron,” said Vera, in a low, thrilling tone, that he 
never forgot, “ 1 did not know that there was so noble a 
man in all the world.” 

‘‘ Give me no credit,” he replied. ” To very few does 
there come such a chance for happiness as I have found in 
you. Come with me out under the starlight, for I have 
much to say to you.” 

Before leaving the cabin, however, he turned to her father, 
who sat with his face buried in his hands, and said, 

“ I know not, and wull never seek to know, what you 
have done, and I believe that your remorse is greater than 
your crime ; but, as the father of this dear and innocent 
maiden, I shall always treat you with respect. You have 
acted honorably to-night, and I honor you for it. I take 
my present course deliberately, and with my eyes fully open.” 

“ I fear that you will have cause for regret ; and yet, for 
Vera’s sake, I hope it may be for the best” 

” I will never leave you, father,” said his daughter, ten- 
derly putting her arms around his neck, and kissing him. 
Tears came into the poor man’s eyes, and he said huskily, 
“lam not worthy of this. Go, go ; it pains me !” 
Saville, in the impulse of his strong love and excitement, 
had decided to tell Vera just how he was situated, believing 
that, in view of the circumstances, she would accept of his 
life long devotion, though unsanctioned by any formal rites ; 
but her first glad and natural utterance, as they stepped out 
into the quiet night, checked the words upon his lips. 


298 


JVEAI^ TO NATURE'S HEART 


“ Thank God I’’ she cried ; “ thank God ! How good 
my Heavenly Father has been to me ! Oh ! that I could 
tell mother how happy I am 

Saville was silent. It was his turn to experience a pro- 
phetic chill of dread. What had that old Hebrew divinity, 
at whom he had scoffed so many years, to do with his hap- 
piness or hers ? But now He rose up before him like a 
grim, remorseless idol, to which the maiden at his side, so 
gentle and loving, and yet so strong, might sacrifice both 
herself and him. 

Prudence whispered, “ You had better not tell her to- 
night, you have too much at stake; wait.^' And so, in- 
stead of telling her the sad story of his past blindness and 
folly, with their consequences, he led her thoughts away 
from every painful theme, resolving that they both should 
have one happy hour, whatever might be on the morrow. 
And yet, remembering the only relation he could offer, he 
did not dare speak frankly of his love, and could only com- 
fort her with the general assurance that he would never leave 
her to the desolation which her father’s language, had so 
awfully described. He spoke of their old, happy trysts, and 
promised that they should be continued as often as his 
duties permitted. Thus, while he did not) openly and 
formally decfare his love, it so pervaded histone and manner 
as to abundantly satisfy Vera, whose quick intuitions scarcely 
needed words. 


F£JiA MUST BECOME AN ATHEIST, 299 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


VERA MUST BECOME AN ATHEIST. 



HAT night Saville slept but little. He had thought 


X that he had settled, in the afternoon, the question of 
his future relation to Vera ; but the strange, unexpected 
events of the evening, after her father’s return, had given the 
problem, in his view, an entirely new aspect. The future 
he had proposed for the maiden — the chance for a happy 
life under its ordinary and normal conditions in society — 
seemed utterly blotted out and rendered impossible, and 
through no fault or weakness of his. 

Saville was full of generous and noble impulses, and Vera’s 
fidelity to her father excited his boundless admiration and 
respect, and greatly increased his affection for her. In con- 
trasting the faithful girl with his selfish and malicious wife, 
he could scarcely believe that they both belonged to the 
same race. 

But, as he saw that Vera’s beauty of character equaled that 
of her form and features, the more unspeakable became his 
reluctance to attempt any such self-sacrifice as he had re- 
solved upon in the afternoon. Nor did it now seem neces- 
sary, or even right, that he should. Every avenue into the 
world was closed against her, and she looked to him alone 
for happiness. 

The fact of her love was most apparent ; and she, no more 
than himself, could be satisfied with the fiction of fraternal 
affection. 


300 


JV£A/? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


But one thing now stood in the way of their happiness, 
and that was what he regarded as her superstitious faith. 
Holding her present belief, what he must propose would 
seem wrong, and only by teaching her his own philosophy 
could he make it appear otherwise. But even if this were 
possible, he had promised, at her mother’ s grave, on the day 
of burial, that he would never do aught to shake the child’s 
confidence in that mother’s teachings, or lead from the 
course which the parent would approve. Did not that 
pledge prove as insuperable a bar as his wretched marriage ? 
And he cursed his destiny as the most cruel that had ever 
fallen to the lot of man. 

But as, in the long, wakeful hours, he sought some solu- 
tion of the problem, this thought occurred : When he made 
that promise, he had foreseen no such emergency as this. 
Should he be more loyal to his own hasty pledge than to 
her whose welfare now wholly depended upon him ? In 
breaking the promise, he would only be more true to her. 
He believed that her mother was only a memory. She was 
dead ; she had ceased to exist. He was a strong, living 
friend. 

As long as the religious delusion which the mother had 
taught her child had been a comfort and a support, it was 
right and kind not to disturb it. But should he permit this 
delusion — this old, antiquated superstition, from which the 
advanced thinkers of the world were fast freeing themselves 
— to stand in the way of actual and priceless advantages ? 
Both Vera and himself would soon cease to exist, and the 
opportunity for enjoyment would pass away forever. Why, 
then, let an imaginary spectre in the path, that a bold ap- 
proach and scrutiny would dissipate, prevent a lifetime of 
happiness ? Was he not even under sacred obligations to 
take the trammels from her mind, when they would cause 
such remediless loss t 


FEJ^A MUST BECOME AN ATHEIST. 301 

The honest theorist believed that duty coincided with in- 
clination, and starting with this premise, there was no other 
conclusion possible. 

But the question which troubled him most was, Could he 
do this ? He had been shown how much the word duty 
meant to Vera. Her faith was simple and absolute, and 
having been taught by her mother, was most dear and sacred. 
He foresaw that the task would be exceedingly difficult, and 
yet there seemed no other course. 

He resolved to attempt it as the only way out of his cruel 
dilemma ; and it was a habit of his mind, when he had 
reasoned a thing out to his satisfaction, to rest firmly in the 
conclusion. It was not in his nature to be ever looking 
back with doubts and misgivings. He had no fears but that 
he could make a home in that secluded mountain region, 
after the war was over, which would contain more of the 
elements of happiness than he could find elsewhere. And 
if she were willing, he was perfectly ready to proclaim to the 
world that the impulses of nature are the only true and bind- 
ing laws, and to support his creed by his open example. He 
knew that his proud, conservative mother would never approve 
of his course, but this was too near and personal a question 
to be decided by her prejudices. He therefore decided to 
conceal the fact of his marriage from the maiden, as much 
for her sake as his own. For, if she learned of it prema- 
turely, before receiving the enlightenment of mind which he 
hoped to bring by his leaching, she, in her strong supersti- 
tion, might destroy, not only his happiness, but her own. 

Having settled upon his course, he fell into a refreshing 
slumber, which lasted till late in the following morning, 
when he was awakened by the report of Vera’s gun. On 
going out, she met him joyously, exclaiming, 

“ My aim is truer to-day. See what a royal dinner you 
are to have I” 


302 JVEA/! TO NATURE'S I/EAETi 

“ I will come to your banquet, Queen Esther/^ 

“ You might do worse. And Em glad you have no 
hateful Haman to bring with you.'^ Then she added mus- 
ingly, “ How often I have read that story. Do you know 
that 1 think some of those old Bible tales are very strange 

“ Little wonder/' he replied, with an expressive shrug. 

But I believe them,” she said stoutly. 

“ I do not doubt it,” he replied laughing ; ” even to the 
acceptance of that marvelous, long-eared beast which was 
wiser than the prophet, and spoke his master’s vernacular. 
There, forgive me 1 I did not mean to pain your dear, 
credulous heart. You must remember, in charity to me, 
how these stories sound to a man. I hope you feel as well 
and happy as I do this morning. But I need not ask, 
when I see the tints of these October leaves in your 
cheeks.” 

“ Here is one that is brown, and here another, yellow and 
green,” replied Vera, in like playful spirit, permitting the 
cloud to pass from her brow. 

” And here is one as beautiful as that dawn which I saw 
reflected in your face after the night you so patiently watched 
over me. Was that rich color only the reflection of the sky, 
Vera ?” 

“ You had just waked up, and could not see anything 
plainly. But a busy housekeeper must not stand idling 
here. Come and see what Gula has for breakfast.” 

The day passed like a happy dream to them both. With 
a shy, maidenly reserve, Vera checked any open expression 
or manifestation of the love she was content to see in his 
face and catch in his tones, while the garish light of day 
lasted. But when they again walked out in the starlight, 
Saville would be put off no longer, and he asked, 

‘‘Vera, do you know why it was impossible for me to 
leave you ?” 


F£/^A MUST BECOME AN ATHEIST. 303 

“You said, yesterday afternoon, that I was your dear sis- 
ter,’' she faltered. 

“ That is an endearing term ; but did it satisfy you ?“ 

She was silent, and he felt her hand tremble on his arm. 

“ I do not think it did. Your wdstful eyes, unconsciously 
to yourself, pleaded for something more— some dearer term. 
Am I not right ?” 

“ Do you remember what you were saying when I found 
you in Fort Clinton ?“ she asked in a low tone. 

“ Tell me what I said.” 

“ I would rather that you remembered.” 

“ I was thinking of you, Vera. I supposed they would 
be my last waking thoughts, and I said, ‘ My more than 
sister, my heart’s true mate.’ Were not those my words ?” 

“ Yes ; and they have made sweet echoes in my ears ever 
since, though I did not till last night understand all they 
meant.” 

“ Have they not made echoes in your heart also ? Have 
you not found your own true mate ?” 

‘ ‘ ‘ Thou knowest, ’ Theron, ‘ the mask of night is on my 
face ; else y^ould a maiden blush ’ tell you all. I cannot 
add, with Juliet, 

If thou think’st I am too quickly won, 

I II frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay ; 

for you know well, already, that I am wholly yours. In- 
deed, if my heart had been as cold toward you yesterday as 
it was tender, 1 could not fail of being won by your geneir 
ous — O Theron ! your course toward me, who am so 
poor, friendless, and shadowed with evil arid sl^aine, overr 
whelms me with gratitude. ” 

“ Any other course would bring rne jife-lpng wretched- 
ness. Now what cause have you for gratitude ?” 

‘ ‘ More cause, since what you give is not an alms ; for 
though I should perish without your love, I could not take 


304 


NEAR TO NAT [/RE'S HEART. 


it as a charity. But are you sure you will never regret your 
action ? My heart misgives me when I think of it ; the world 
can offer you so much ! You might easily win one who is 
dowered with wealth, rank, and beauty, instead of poor me, 
who am heiress only of a curse.” 

Saville thought, with a mental oath of execration, how he 
had won such a one as she described ; but, with the pur- 
pose of banishing all such misgivings on her part, he 
said, 

” If I were an ambitious boy who had never seen the 
world, there might, possibly, be some ground for your fears ; 
but from my youth I have been out in the world, and know 
much about it ; and never, in my happiest moments there, 
did I experience half the content I found in your compan- 
ionship, even when I was first learning to know your worth, 
as we talked together on the height back of your old home, 
near West Point. Now that I have come to love you, now 
that I justly honor you above all other women, can you 
imagine I could ever think of another ? It is because I 
have seen the world, and know what it contains, and how 
little it can do for me, that I prize you far beyond it all ; 
and it is because you are so innocent and unworldly that 
you do not know your own value. If I had met you in 
society, I should have had scores of rivals.” 

“ Now I fear you are flattering me,” she said laughing ; 
” but you would have had no cause for fear. I shall come 
to believe in my value only as I can make you happy.” 

“ Then I fear you will grow vain, indeed, for you will find 
that your power is unbounded in this respect.” 

” O Theron ! if I could induce you to accept of my 
faith, what you say would eventually be true. I cannot help 
telling you now, at the commencement of our new and happy 
life, that I can never rest — never be satisfied— till mother’s 
favorite words from the Bible, ‘ Let not your heart be 


FE/^A MUST BECOME AN ATHEIST. 305 


troubled, neither let it be afraid/ mean to you what they 
did to her and do to me. For some reason, God had 
seemed afar off, and I was losing mv faith in His goodness 
and mercy ; but, from the time He enabled me to find you 
in the fort, I have felt differently, and now I cannot thank 
and love Him enough.’^ 

Saville was dismayed. This was reversing matters, and 
the one he proposed to win over to atheism was fully bent 
on leading him to become a Christian. 

After a moment she added, “ I miss my Bible so much. 
Won’t you get me another, Theron ?” 

“ I cannot,” he said, a little abruptly ; and then con- 
tinued, very gently, “ We must agree to dismiss this subject, 
Vera, darling. The Bible is not to me what it is to you, 
and it never can be. Great as my faults are, I try to be 
honest ; and with you I cannot help being sincere. If you 
regarded the Bible as a result of human genius, like the 
plays of Shakespeare, I would get you one. But I cannot 
aid you in making its unnatural teaching and stories the law 
of your conscience.” 

“ O Theron !” exclaimed Vera, bursting into tears, and 
hiding her face upon his shoulder. 

“ I knew what I said would pain you, darling, but I could 
not help it. Would you have me act the part of a hypo- 
crite ? I am just as sincere as you are. You have told me 
your views and faith, and I tell you mine. As you believe 
in the Bible, I believe in man and nature ; and I see in 
you her most perfect work.” 

“ But God is the author of both man and nature,” said 
Vera eagerly. 

“ I see no proof of it, and much to the contrary,” an- 
swered Saville decidedly. “ Moreover, the great and wise 
of the world, who do their own thinking, hold the same 
views that I do. As the subject has come up between us, I 


3 o 6 J\r£AIi TO NATURE^ S HEART, 

could not help being honest with you, as I ever shall be ; 
but do not let us dwell on it any longer now/’ 

Vera sighed deeply, but said only, “ I cannot understand 
how any one can be so good and noble as you are and not 
believe in the Bible. I never even dreamed that it could be 
otherwise than true, and to doubt it seems impossible. And 
yet I know you are as sincere as I am.” 

“And thus you prove that you are no bigot, darling; 
for, as a general thing, the devotees of all the various relig- 
ions of the world are prone to regard those who cannot think 
just as they do as willful, wicked wretches, who ought to be 
knocked promptly on the head. If you can’t convert me, I 
am sure you will not put me to torture, will you, dear ?” 

“ If I did, I should torture myself most. But, Theron, 
this is too sad a subject for me to jest about. I shall never 
cease to hope that you will some day think as I do. God 
can incline your heart toward Him as easily as He bends the 
tops of yonder trees.” 

“ Now, Vera, darling, that is the wind which is bending 
the treetops. Let us drop this subject for the present. We 
have both been honest with each other, and we could not be 
otherwise. There is so much on which we lovingly and 
heartily agree, why dwell on the one thing wherein we 
differ?” And he strove, with alia lover’s zeal, to banish 
her sad thoughts. She loved him too well to permit him 
to see that he failed. Indeed he did not fail. The cup of 
happiness which he placed to her lips filled her with a 
strange delight, even while she remained conscious that it 
contained one bitter dreg. 

The following days passed all too quickly for them both. 
It was part of Saville’ s scheme to enchain her affections, so 
that she could not take any other course, when the test 
came, than that which he proposed ; and it would seem that 
he was succeeding beyond his hopes. Her capability of 


FE/HA MUST BECOME AN ATHEIST. 307 


loving was large, and she had but few other ties and inter- 
ests to draw her thoughts from him. His mind was culti- 
vated, versatile, ever full of bright, fresh thoughts ; and thus 
his society was to her like a sweet, exhilarating wine. But 
that which weighed more with her than all else was the ever- 
present memory of his devoted loyalty to her, when she 
knew that the great majority of the world would have shrunk 
away. She looked forward to their parting with inexpres- 
sible dread, and the remembrance of the constant dangers 
to which as a soldier he must be exposed, gave to her affec- 
tion a tenderness, which only those who hold their heart- 
idols in uncertain tenure can understand. 

During the latter part of his stay, Saville wasted no hours 
in love-idyls ; but was busy, in every possible way, in pro- 
viding for her security and comfort during the coming win- 
ter. He sent Tascar repeatedly across the mountains for 
such things as were needed, and also employed him in con- 
structing a secure though hidden bridle-path down into the 
glen. He induced Mr. Brown to aid him in building sub- 
stantial shelter for a horse, two or three cows, and some 
poultry. On the margin of a neighboring pond there was 
still forage which might be cut, which, with the grain that 
he intended to send, would be sufficient provision until 
spring again brought its abundant supply. 

Vera amused Saville one day by her spirit of indepen- 
dence. 

“ We cannot receive all this,’" she said, “ without mak- 
ing some return.” 

“ Give me a kiss, and I am amply repaid,” he an- 
swered. 

“ I am in earnest,” she continued. “ Is there not some 
way in which I can earn money ?” 

“ Yes, you have only to do as I ask, and you shall receive 
the greater part of my pay.” 


3o8 


NEAIi TO NATURE* S HEART, 


“ But something tells me that this is not right, Theron ; 
at least, not yet.'^ 

He knew that she meant not until they were married. 
But, feeling that he could never have a better right than now, 
he tried to satisfy her by saying. 

Since I am yours, body and soul, can I not share that 
with you which I value only as it can minister to your com- 
fort ? This is the beginning of our future home, and you 
are doing more to make it homelike than I can.” 

“Oh dear!” she cried, half pouting, half laughing; 
‘ ‘ do men always have their own way ?’ ’ 

“ No, my fairy queen. I will one day be your slave.” 

“ Why not add that you will take the part of Caliban, and 
that I will call ‘ What, hu 1 slave 1 Caliban 1 make our fire ; 
fetch in our wood.' Oh ! but you wall be ‘ a brave mon- 
ster,' Theron I” 

“ Now I think of it, I will be Prospero, and you ‘ my 
quaint Ariel.' But I will never give thee thy freedom.” 

“ Indeed ! this is reversing the order; and yet I think 
you are nearer right now. I am ‘ to answer thy best pleas- 
ure,' and do ‘ thy strong bidding. ' Your pet name of Ariel 
always makes me laugh, however, for you forget that the 
spirit says, ‘ To thy strong bidding task Ariel, and all his 
quality.' Tascar must be your Ariel, and I will be ” 

“ My heart's true mate. Come, there is Gula summon- 
ing us to supper ;” and with a glance that gave the confid- 
ing girl more assurance than could any words, he led her 
within the cabin that he already called “ home,” and to 
which their united labors were fast giving a homelike and 
inviting character. 

The parting which soon came was a sore trial to Vera, 
though, woman-like, she sought to hide from her lover how 
deeply she was pained. She comforted herself with his as- 
surance, however, that in all probability he would not be 
far away, and that he could often visit her. 


A HASTY MARRIA GE. 


309 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


A HASTY MARRIAGE, 


N reaching the headquarters of the force defending the 



Highlands, Saville received a warm welcome from 
his old associates and acquaintances. And yet he could not 
help noting something in their manner which both puzzled 
and annoyed him. He, at first, suspected that Surgeon 
Jasper had gossiped concerning his fair hostess and nurse ; 
and, therefore, drew him aside, with the intention of teach- 
ing him and others a severe lesson, in case his surmise proved 
correct. In matters personal to himself Saville was one to 
resent promptly, even to the extent of a bloody quarrel, any- 
thing which he regarded as an unwarrantable interference or 


liberty. 


“Jasper,” he said, “ I cannot believe that you could have 
so far forgotten the confidential relations which you, as my 
medical adviser, sustained to me, as to babble of anything 
you saw or surmised when attending me in the mountains ; 
and yet what does the peculiar manner of my old acquaint- 
ances mean ? Why do they turn and look after me, and say 
something that is not designed for my ears 

“You are right, Saville. I am not capable of breaking 
professional silence, even if I had no friendly regard for you. 
Come to my quarters.” 

On reaching them, the surgeon fastened the door, and 
took out a New York paper. 

“ Read that,” he said. 


310 


JVEAK TO NATURE'S HEART. 


‘ ‘ Mother ?’ ’ asked Saville, turning pale. 

“ No, no ! Read 

With a frown black as night, Saville read : 

“Married, on the I2th of October, Captain Henry Vennam, of 
H. R. M. Service, to Mrs. Julia Ashburton Saville, widow of the 
late Captain Saville, who was killed during the storming of the forts 
in the Highlands on the Hudson. It is well known that Mrs. Sa- 
ville had no sympathy with her husband, in his unnatural rebellion 
against his king, and that her loyal hostility to his disloyalty long 
ago led to a formal separation. This fact fully accounts for the 
seeming haste with which she has honored with her hand the brave 
and accomplished officer who this day leads her to the altar.” 

With a deep imprecation, Saville crushed the paper in his 
hand, and then sat motionless, with contracting brows, like 
one trying to think his way out of some unexpected emer 
gency. 

“ From one of our spies who has since come in,’’ said 
the surgeon, “ we have learned the additional fact, that this 
fellow, Vennam, found you himself in the fort, and brought 
away your sword as proof of your death. It is well he did 
not use it to let out what little life you had left.” 

“1 have no doubt that he would, and with her full ap- 
proval, if he had supposed I was alive,” said Saville ab- 
stractedly. 

“ That’s a harsh accusation to bring against your wife.” 

“ Curse her !” cried Saville, starting up in great agita- 
tion. “ That is the most infernal part of this whole shame- 
ful business ! She is still my wife. If I were only rid of 
her forever, I could forgive the insult of her indecent haste 
in seeking the altar with another man. But the law still 
binds me to her, as fiendish cruelty once chained criminals 
to a putrefying corpse. ’ ’ 

“ It’s only too true, Saville. Her marriage with that 
officer was only an empty form. Will she remain with him. 


A HASTY MATT/AGE. 


311 


do you think ? She must have heard that you are alive by 
this time/’ 

‘‘ I don’t know,” said Saville desperately. “ She is none 
too good. If she would only break her neck before she 
breaks my heart J” 

” Well, Saville, pardon me for saying it ; but I think you 
will find both comfort and revenge in yonder moun- 
tains.” 

“ Jasper,” said Saville gravely, ” you are my friend ; but 
touch lightly on that subject. If I were free to marry that 
innocent maiden, who, you know well, is unrivaled in all 
that can win respect and love, I would esteem it more than 
the best gift of the world. She saved my life when that vile 
thing the law calls my wife was waiting with murderous 
eagerness to hear of my death.” 

“ I admit that you cannot legally marry your wild flower ; 
but you know what men do every day, and without a tithe 
of your excuse. She is evidently the daughter of a criminal, 
and can never hope for any better future than you can 
offer. ” 

“ The honest love and devoted, lifelong loyalty which I 
would offer I believe to be right and honorable. Do you 
suppose that I could ask that true, pure girl, to whom I 
owe so much, to do anything that I regarded as base, or 
even wrong ? That she is friendless and defenseless ; that 
her father, who should be her natural protector, has only 
darkened her life by some evil deed, all make it more im- 
perative that I, as a man of honor, should be faithful to her 
interests. I do most sincerely believe that I have a right to 
offer her my love ; but, with her faith and training, I fear 
that I can never make it appear so to her, when she comes 
to know of that woman in New York.” 

“ Well,” said the surgeon, with a shrug, “lam neither 
Christian nor philosopher. I take the world as I find it, and 


312 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


try to have as comfortable a lime as I can every day, hoping 
that the good luck which I have always had here will follow 
me into the next life, if there is any.” 

“ Well added,” replied Saville bitterly ; ” ‘ if there is 
any ! ’ If men used their reason, and believed what they 
saw, they would know there is not. This life would be 
abundantly sufficient, and in the main happy, did not super- 
stition and the monstrous laws it has spawned curse and 
thwart us on every side. But, farewell, my friend ; I have 
much to think of, and I will inflict my ill-starred affairs on 
you no longer. Let all that has passed between us be 
buried where no gossip -monger can ever rake it up.” 

Alter carefully considering the act of his wile in all its 
aspects, Saville concluded that it would be to his advantage. 
The haste of her marriage, which she had intended as an 
indignity to his memory, would react against herself, and 
involve more shame to her than to him. His hate was grat- 
ified at the thought of her intense mortification and disap- 
pointment when learning that he was still living. She must 
either separate instantly from the man for whom she had a 
passion — of love she was not capable — or else be disgraced 
for life. At best, even her own party would be far more in- 
clined toward censure than to entertain charity or sympathy. 

He also felt utterly absolved from what he regarded as his 
rash promise to be loyal to the mere name of wife. 

But the consideration which weighed most with him was 
the belief that Vera, in view of her act, could be made to 
feel that in reality he had no wife, that she had forfeited 
every claim, and so might be more surely led to accept of 
Saville as her lover, since he could not be her husband. 

The fact that a certain amount of the odium of his wife's 
course would cling to him in the world's estimation, and 
that he would always be known as the husband of the woman 
who was in such haste to marry another that she could not 


A HASTY MARRIAGE. 


313 


wait till assured of his burial, made a secluded mountain 
home, with Vera, seem all the more truly a refuge. 

Thus, every hope for the future came to rest, more com- 
pletely than before, on the success of his scheme of teaching 
Vera that man was a law unto himself, and that there was 
'io external power that had a right to set in judgment on his 
actions. 

A day or two thereafter, a paper came through the lines, 
from New York, containing the following item : 

“ Truth Stranger than Fiction. — Captain Saville, whom all 
supposed killed at Fort Clinton, is alive. It is said that he was 
taken from the fort, late at night, by some people whom he had be- 
friended, and carried back in the mountains ; and that, though very 
severely wounded, he is rapidly recovering. These facts are so well 
authenticated that his wife has left Captain Vennam’s quarters, 
and returned to her relatives. It is said that they are deeply in- 
censed against the unfortunate officer, who rather deserves sym- 
pathy, since he has become, in a certain sense, a widower. There 
seems to have been strange blundering in the case somewhere. 
Perhaps the eyes of the gallant captain were still blinded with the 
smoke of battle, when he supposed that he saw Saville dead. 
There may be new developments in the comedy, or tragedy, which- 
ever it may prove, before many days.” 

Saville smiled grimly as he read it, and then tossed it con- 
temptuously aside. 


314 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


SEEMING SUCCESS. 


ATER In the day, Saville received a document which 



J d he read with keen delight. It was a leave of absence 

from his commanding officer, in which he was complimented 
on his behavior in the recent battle, and congratulated upon 
his remarkable escape. ‘ ‘ The campaign is over, ’ ’ the writer 
went on to say, “ and it is not yet fully decided just where, 
in the Highlands, the future works will be erected. Sur- 
geon Jasper also informs me that, in your zeal for the ser- 
vice, you have reported for duty rather sooner than the con- 
dition of your wound warrants. You are therefore requested 
to leave your address at these headquarters, and are permitted 
to be absent until notified.” 

“ Jasper, this is your work,” said Saville, entering the 
surgeon’s quarters. 

” Well, suppose it is ; what have you got to say about 
it ?” replied Jasper, lifting his broad, good-natured face to 
the speaker. 

“ I say this, from the bottom of my heart, mon ami^ may 
you never have to take any of your own medicine 1” 

“Amen!” cried the surgeon. ‘ ‘ I was never wished bet- 
ter luck than that. But hold on, you are not through with 
me yet. I jogged the general’s elbow only that I might 
get a chance to jockey you on a horse. I’ve a beast that’s 
a little too skittish for one of my weight and temperament, 
and it occurred to me that if I gave you a chance to make 
a quick journey, you would buy him.” 


SEEMING SUCCESS. 


315 


“ Name your price ; charge what you please ; Tm wholly 
at your mercy/’ laughed Saville. 

“ That is the condition in which I always like to get a 
patient, for I can then bleed him to my own satisfaction. 
But if you were not my friend, Saville, I would charge you 
twice as much as I am going to ask.” 

The bargain was soon made, nor did Saville regret it, 
when, on the following short November day, the fleet animal 
carried him safely to the mountain gorge that he hoped would 
henceforth be the Mecca of all his pilgrimages. 

He did not go clattering down the bridle path ; but, tying 
his horse some distance away, stole up to the cabin unper- 
ceived, and looked in at the window. How vividly, in after 
years, he remembered the picture he then saw ! Vera sat 
alone, on one side of the ample hearth ; her work had fallen 
on the floor at her side, and her hands were crossed upon 
her lap. She was looking intently into the fire, as if she 
saw more there than the rising and falling flames, which now 
illumined her face until its beauty seemed scarcely earthly, and 
again left it in shadow that suggested almost equal loveliness. 

Her revery sOon ended with a happy smile ; she picked 
up her work, and seemed chiding her idle hands ; then, in 
obedience to another impulse, she dropped it again, and her 
rich, powerful voice gave the old refrain, 

“ I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows.” 

She had scarcely sung the line before Saville was accom- 
panying her on his flute. She stopped abruptly, and sprang 
up, with hope and fear both depicted on her face. Was 
the echo real, or a ghostly omen of evil ? She darted to the 
door, and Saville took her into his arms. 

How fondly she ever dwelt on the halcyon days that fol- 
lowed ! They hunted and rambled together among the hills 
that love made beautiful, even in bleak November ; and 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


316 

when the storms of early winter roared in the wooded heights 
above the cabin, the roar of the crackling flames up the wide 
chimney was louder, and the sound of their merry voices 
often louder still. Their mirthfulness, at times, relaxed even 
the gloomy face of the poor exile, and he appeared to enjoy 
a pale reflection of their happiness. 

Saville also sought to make the most of the opportunity 
which this visit gave, by commencing to give Vera a culture 
which would make her more companionable in future years. 
He gave her lessons in drawing and music, and found her a 
most apt scholar in these branches. He also taught her how 
to express herself correctly in writing, and in the evening she 
usually read aloud to him for an hour or more. 

He succeeded in obtaining quite a library for her. Learn- 
ing that among the effects of a wealthy Tory, whose property 
had been confiscated, there was a large number of books, 
he went to see them, and found that he could buy them all 
for a small sum. He did not wish them all, but only such 
as would serve his purpose, and give Vera general culture 
and knowledge, without strengthening her faith. To his 
joy, he found that the library was quite rich, for that day, 
in history, travels, biography, and even philosophy. It also 
contained some of the Latin classics, a translation of Homer, 
and the “ Plays of William Shakspeare, ” which he knew to 
be so dear to Vera’s heart. He and Tascar, who accom- 
panied him, were quite well laden on their return ; and Vera, 
at first, was wild with delight over these treasures. She 
looked hastily and eagerly through the collection, and then 
sighed deeply. 

“ What does that mean V asked Saville. 

“ There is no Bible here,” she replied in a low tone. 

“ No, Vera,” he said gravely, and almost sternly ; for he 
was beginning to regard this book with bitter hostility, as the 
possible cause, in his view, of wretchedness to them both. 


SEEMING SUCCESS. 


317 


Tears came into the sensitive girl’s eyes ; but he kissed 
them away, and sought, with his usual success, to divert her 
thoughts from the subject he most dreaded. He believed 
that he could educate her mind above and beyond her su- 
perstition, and thus enable her gradually and naturally to 
outgrow it, as he supposed that he had. In this effort, he 
made history and books of travel his chief allies, thinking 
that they were best suited to the simplicity and childlike 
character of her mind. He skillfully, yet unobtrusively, 
caused her to see that other peoples and races were as de- 
voted to their multifarious religions as she was to hers. He 
placed before her, though in no argumentative way that 
would awaken opposition, the absurd, cruel, and monstrous 
acts of those who had professed to be Christians. He sup- 
plemented what he read with graphic descriptions. The old 
Greeks and Romans were made to live again, and she was 
shown that their mythology, which lasted for centuries, was 
now in truth only a myth, and that, as the people grew 
wiser, they lost faith in their gods. 

Vera was not slow in drawing the inference, and clouds 
of doubt began to darken her mind ; but it seemed so dread- 
ful to question her mother’s faith, that she fought against 
her unbelief earnestly, though secretly ; for she knew that 
she could obtain no help from Saville. These doubts, how- 
ever, became a low, jarring discord in the sweet harmony of 
her life. 

But his personal influence had a still stronger effect than 
his suggestion of abstract thought, and of facts adverse to 
her faith. He one day obtained quite a clear glimpse of the 
silent workings of her mind ; for, coming in unexpectedly, 
he found her in tears. To his gentle but eager questioning, 
she sobbed, 

“ O Theron 1 you are pushing God, and all relating to 
Him, out of my heart and thoughts, and I am beginning 


JVEAJ^ TO NATURE^ S HEART, 


318 

to worship only you. My conscience tells me that it is not 
right, and that evil will come of it.’" 

“Well, Vera, darling,” he said, “this is scarcely more 
than fair, since you fill every nook and corner of my heart, 
and I have long worshiped you only.” 

She shook her head with a new rush of tears ; but he 
comforted her with many reassuring words, and she loved 
him too well to be willing to cloud his face with her trouble. 
Her conscious effort to resist his personal influence grew less 
and less, and he seemingly took sole possession of her heart. 

As she was situated, she was scarcely to be blamed, for he 
had proved such a true and helpful friend ; he had made 
such an infinite difference in her life, and was so genuinely 
human, so sympathetic in all respects, save the one on which 
they differed, that her own humanity found in him every- 
thing it craved. Even in his skepticism, she was compelled 
to respect him for his evident sincerity. 

Still, she did not lose her faith in God, nor did she often 
neglect the form of devotion ; but she permitted Saville’s 
image to crowd Him almost wholly from her heart and 
thoughts. 

Saville occasionally sent Tascar with a note of inquiry to 
Surgeon Jasper, and thus kept himself posted in regard to 
public affairs. During the latter part of January, he was 
ordered to report to Lieutenant- Colonel Radiere, and found, 
to his great satisfaction, that his services would be required 
at West Point, from which place he could ride “ home” in 
comparatively brief time. The winter and spring passed 
rapidly away. His hopes continually grew stronger, that 
his effort to teach Vera to eventually fesl and think as. he 
did, would be crowned with success, and he was even more 
sure that he had made himself so necessary to her very ex- 
istence that she could never give him up, even though her 
conscience at first might be arra} ed against iiim. 


A MASTER MIN'D AND WILL. 


319 


CHAPTER XXX. 


A MASTER MIND AND WILL. 



ARLY in the summer, Saville received instructions to 


go to the main army under General Washington, 
and thence to Philadelphia (which had recently been evacu- 
ated by the British troops), upon business connected with 
the Engineer Department. 

On his way he stopped at the cabin, to inform Vera of his 
journey, but assured her of his speedy return. She grew 
pale at the thought of the possible perils which he might en- 
counter, but he promised more caution than it was in his 
nature to practice, and also said, with a significant glance, 
that awakened a curiosity which he would not then satisfy, 
that he would bring her something from Philadelphia. 

He reached General Washington's headquarters on the 
eve of the memorable battle of Monmouth. Though jaded 
and worn by his ride, he readily accepted Lafayette’s invita- 
tion to act as his aid, his services being specially valuable at 
this time, from his familiarity wdth both French and English. 

The command of the extreme advance, upon which would 
devolve the important task of first attacking the eqeipy pre- 
liminary to a general engagement, would properly fall fq 
General Lee, who was second to Washingtop in rank. But 
Lafayette, ever coveting the post of danger, eagerly sought 
to be intrusted with this duty. As General Lee had been 
from the first strenuously opposed to the battle, and, in- 
deed, to any interference with the British line of march 


320 


NEAR TO NAT [/RE'S HEART 


through New Jersey, Washington was more than ready to 
comply, if that officer would waive his right to lead in per- 
son. This General Lee did unhesitatingly, saying to the 
Marquis, that he was only too glad to be relieved from all 
responsibility in carrying out measures which were destined 
to fail. 

Lafayette, therefore, early on the morning of the 27th of 
June, advanced with a large force toward the enemy. The 
British troops were commanded by Sir Henry Clinton, who, 
perceiving that a battle must be fought, made his disposi- 
tions accordingly, moving his baggage forward on his line 
of march, but retaining the flower of his army in the rear to 
repel the approaching Americans. In the mean time. Gen- 
eral Lee changed his mind, and requested Washington to 
give him the leadership of the advance which he had just re- 
linquished. Indeed, as a matter of military etiquette, he al- 
most claimed it as his right. Although Lee had been bit- 
terly opposed to Washington’s plan of battle, the latter etill 
believed the crotchety general would do his duty as an 
officer, but did not know how to satisfy his punctilious 
claims without wounding Lafayette. Learning, how^ever, 
that the British forces immediately before the Marquis were 
being rapidly increased, he dispatched two additional 
brigades to the front, under command of Lee, who, as senior 
officer on the field, would, as a matter of course, outrank 
all others. But Washington’s friendship for Lafayette also 
led him to write him a note of explanation. 

That sultry Saturday night was one of deep anxiety to 
both parties. The British general was encumbered with an 
enormous amount of baggage. Washington was about to 
assail the disciplined troops, whom Lee said it was madness 
to attack in their present force and strong position. 

None who were burdened with responsibility slept, and 
even Saville, though very weary, was kept awake by the 


A MASTER MIND AND WILL. 


321 


thought, that in a very few hours he might enter on the 
dreamless sleep which his love now made him dread un- 
speakably ; and that, should desperate wounds leave him 
helpless on the field, Vera was too far away to seek him 
again. 

At midnight there was a stir and the heavy tread of men. 
Washington, who has been characterized as over-cautious, 
was so resolutely bent on fighting Clinton, that he had sent 
orders for a large detachment to move up close to the ene- 
my’s lines, and to hold the British general in check, should 
he attempt to decamp in the darkness. 

At daylight, expresses galloped to Lee and to Washington 
with the tidings that the enemy were moving. The chief 
put the main army into motion instantly, and gave orders, 
that the men should throw aside blankets and every imped- 
ing weight. Lee remained inert until positive orders spurred 
him into action. He then advanced, it is true, but lan- 
guidly, very cautiously, without definite purpose, and with- 
out concert with his supporting generals. 

By his direction. General Wayne gained a position where 
he was certain he could deal the enemy a tremendous blow ; 
but was checked in the very act of striking, that Lee himself 
might carry out a brilliant piece of strategy, which ended, 
however, in a feeble and purposeless demonstration. 

Lafayette saw an opportunity to gain the rear of a body of 
the enemy marching against them, and spurred to Lee^ that 
he might obtain permission to make the attempt. 

“Sir," was the reply, “you do not know British 
soldiers ; we cannot stand against them ; we shall certainly 
be driven back at first, and we must be cautious.’' 

“ It may be so. General,” Lafayette replied ; “ but 
British soldiers have been beaten, and they may be again ; 
at any rate, I am disposed to make the trial.” 

Lee then gave Lafayette permission to carry out his plan 


322 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 


in part. A little later, one of Washington’s aids arrived 
upon the field in quest of information, and the marquis sent 
back emphatic word to his chief that his presence was 
needed. 

Before the halfway measure which Lee proposed could be 
carried out, the permission was recalled, and the gallant 
Frenchman was ordered to fall back, though why he could 
riot tell. He chafed like a chained lion, and now felt that 
the man whom he must obey was either a traitor or a coward. 

Saville was deeply chagrined ; for Lee, from his outspoken 
skepticism and innovating tendencies, was one of his heroes. 

This hesitation, this marching and countermarching, and 
cautious feeling around, gave Sir Henry Clinton just the 
time he needed. His immense train of baggage was well 
out of the way, guarded by a strong force under General 
Knyphausen, so he now decidedly took the initiative, by 
hurling the bulk of his army, under Lord Cornwallis, against 
the dilatory Americans, who had been wasting their time 
and strength in purposeless skirmishing. 

The whole advance guard of the army under Lee was soon 
falling back, some with orders and some without, and it was 
not long before the retrograde movement developed into a 
disgraceful retreat. As the enemy pressed faster and near- 
er, panic seized upon the Continental forces, and all the 
awful consequences followed inevitably. The day was in* 
tensely hot, and the unclouded sun smote many a poor fel- 
low to the earth in surer death than the thickly-flying bul- 
lets. The already wearied men sank ankle-deep into the 
yielding sand, and those who, through feebleness, wounds, 
or fatigue, fell in the way, were trampled by the strong in 
their reckless flight. 

And yet Washington knew nothing of all this. There had 
been no indications of heavy fighting in his front. To all 
the wretched blunders of that morning Lee added the most 


A MASTER MIND AND WILL. 323 

unpardonable, when he failed to inform his chief that he 
was falling back ; for he thereby endangered the entire army. 

The first intimation that Washington received of what had 
occurred was the appearance of breathless, terror-stricken 
fugitives. With rare presence of mind, he ordered them 
under arrest, lest they should communicate their tidings to 
the main body of the army, which was advancing to Lee’s 
support ; for there is no contagion so mysterious and awfully 
rapid in its transmission as that of a panic. 

Still hoping that the report was unfounded, he sprang upon 
his horse, and spurred toward the front ; but the increasing 
stream of fugitives, and then the heads of the retreating 
columns, soon convinced him that the disaster which he be- 
lieved impossible had taken place. He asked several officers 
in the retreating column what it all meant. No one knew. 
One smiled significantly, another was angry, while a third 
declared, with an oath, that they were flying from a 
shadow.” 

Washington was ever slow to suspect others of evil, but 
the thought now flashed into his mind that Lee was making 
good his predictions of defeat, by his own cowardly or 
treacherous action. He stopped to ask no more questions, 
but, ordering the commander of the first division to form his 
men on the first rising ground, he, with his staff, swept 
across the causeway, past the disorderly fugitives, his anger 
kindling as he rode. The frown upon his brow grew black 
as night, and by the time he reached Lee, who was leading 
the retreat of the second division, his appearance was terrible. 
Saville, who rode near, with Lafayette, was deeply awed, 
and, were not the proof before him, could not have believed 
that a human face could become so powerful in its indig- 
nation. 

“ What is the meaning of all this, sir ?” Washington de- 
manded, in a tone that was stern even to fierceness. 


324 


JVEAjR to NATURE'S HEART, 


“ Sir — sir,” stammered Lee, at first overwhelmed by 
Washington’s manner. 

“ I desire to know the meaning of this disorder and con- 
fusion,” was again demanded, and with still greater vehe- 
mence. 

“You know that the attack was contrary to my advice 
and opinion — ” Lee began. 

“You should not have undertaken the command, unless 
you intended to carry it through.” 

Lee’s irascible spirit was now stung to rage, and he made 
an angry reply, which drew from Washington still sharper 
expressions. For a moment, the incensed generals con- 
fronted each other, like two thunder-clouds that are flashing 
their lightnings back and forth, as if within the dark folds of 
each there was a vindictive will. 

Lee sought to give a hurried explanation, which ended 
with the assertion that the ground was unfavorable, and that 
he was not disposed to beard the whole British army with 
troops in such a situation. 

“ I have certain information,” rejoined Washington, 
“ that it was merely a strong covering party. ” 

“ That may be ; but it was stronger than mine, and I 
did not think proper to run such a risk.” 

“lam very sorry,” was the reply, “ that you undertook 
the command, unless you meant to fight the enemy.” 

“ I did not think it prudent to bring on a general engage- 
ment.” 

“Whatever your opinion may have been,” answered 
Washington disdainfully, “ I expected my orders would 
have been obeyed.” 

All this had passed with inconceivable rapidity, and, as it 
were, in flashes, and yet too much time had been wasted, 
for the enemy were but a few minutes’ march away from 
them. Casting Lee aside, as he might a broken reed, Wash- 


A MASTER MIND AND iVILL. 325 

ington ordered that the head of the second division, instead 
of continuing its retreat, should form instantly in line of 
battle. Then, wheeling his horse, he dashed to the rear of 
the American column, and toward the advancing enemy, 
who were now close upon the confused and disordered rem- 
nant of Lee’s troops. 

Until Washington appeared, the poor fellows were in sore 
straits. Their retreat had been checked ; they were standing 
helplessly in the road, artillery and infantry huddled together. 
No one knew what to do, or how the miserable blundering 
of the day would end. Only one thing was definite and 
certain — the solid columns of their pursuers were now al- 
most upon them. They were on the eve of a headlong and 
disastrous flight, when Washington, with his staff, galloped 
up, and his presence and inspiring mien sent an electric 
thrill of hope and courage to every fainting heart. The 
great master mind, aroused to its highest degree of power, 
seemed to lay a resistless grasp upon the whole chaotic 
mass. It appeared but a moment before Colonel Oswald’s 
guns were posted on a neighboring eminence, were unlim- 
bered, and were pouring well-directed shots into the advanc- 
ing foe. Two other batteries galloped off to the left, and 
taking position in the covert of woods, were soon adding 
their tremendous echoes to the deepening uproar of battle. 
In the mean time, and under a perfect storm of bullets and 
cannon balls, the intrepid chief formed the regiments of 
Colonels Stewart and Ramsay in line, and enabled them to 
reply to the destructive volleys they were receiving. lie 
seemed to bear the same charmed life that had excited the 
superstitious wonder of the savages on Braddock’s disastrous 
field in the old French and Indian war. Within a space of 
time so brief as to appear incredible, he had rallied into battle 
array fugitives that, a few moments before, were bent only on 
flight, and the impetuous advance of the enemy was checked. 


326 


JVEA/? TO NATURE'S HEART, 


Having made all the arrangements within his power, this 
born commander of men did a still greater thing : he con- 
trolled himself. Riding back to Lee, in calmer mood, he 
asked, 

“Will you retain the command on this height or not ? 
If you will, I will return to the main body, and have it 
formed on the next height.” 

“ It is equal to me where I command,” replied Lee. 

“ I expect you will take proper means for checking the 
enemy,” said Washington. 

“ Your orders shall be obeyed ; and I shall not be the 
first to leave the ground.” 

Availing himself of the respite which his own masterly 
action had secured, Washington spurred back to the main 
army, which, under his rapid orders, soon bristled along the 
next height. 

But he had left something of his own iron will among 
those who were now sustaining the enemy’s attack. His 
clarion voice, which had resounded above the din, was still 
echoing in their hearts, and the grand excitement which had 
animated his face made a hero of every soldier in the little 
force which the enemy’s bullets were fast thinning. 

They maintained their position gallantly for some little 
lime, and when, at last, the left wing gave way, pushed back 
by the weight of numbers, and emerged on the further side 
of the woods toward Washington, both of the contending 
parties seemed intermingled in a hand-to-hand meUe. 

The enemy next attacked Varnum’s brigade, posted near 
the causeway, across which the Americans must retreat, and 
here the conflict raged severely for some time. 

As Saville was carrying an order across the field to a bat- 
tery that was doing effective service, he was hailed by a 
familiar voice, and turning, saw his old acquaintance. Cap- 
tain Molly, coming toward him with a bucket of water. 


A MASTER MIND AND WILD 327 

The Holy Vargin bless ye, Misther Saville V* she cried. 
** I fale safe, now I know that ye’re around.’* • 

“Ah, Molly, my brave girl ! is that you?” he replied. 
“ What are you doing here ?” 

“ Faix, sur, while Larry is givin’ the Red-coats fire. I’m 
givin’ him wather.” 

“ Can you spare me a drop? for I’m half perished with 
thirst in this infernal heat and dust.” 

“ Take all ye want, and welcome. What are a few 
dhraps of wather, when ye spilt yer blood for me ?” 

“ Molly, you are a jewel ! What did you do for me? 
Larry may well be proud of you.” 

“ Och ! poor man I I’m better to him now ” 

A cannon ball was whizzing toward them ; a second later, 
Larry was a bleeding corpse beside his gun. 

Molly saw him fall as she turned. With a wild shriek she 
dropped her pail, rushed to his side, and throwing herself 
upon his mangled form, gave utterance to loud cries of 
grief. 

The officer in charge of the battery was about to withdraw 
the gun, as he now had no one competent to work it ; but 
Molly, obeying another impulse, sprang up, and dashing her 
tears right and left, cried, 

“ No, yer honor ! I’ll take Larry’s place, and it’ll do 
me sore heart good to send some o’ thim Red-coats, as 
killed him, to the divil and she seized the rammer, and 
proved instantly that she had nerve and skill for the task. 
With her dark, piercing eyes ablaze with anger, and her di- 
sheveled hair flying about her inflamed face, she seemed a 
fury rather than a woman. When Saville left, the rapid dis- 
charges of the gun told how eagerly she was seeking to 
avenge the death of her husband. 

The British cavalry, and a heavy body of infantry at last 
charged simultaneously, and broke the American ranks. 


328 


NEAJ^ TO NATURE'S HEART, 


Lee ordered instant retreat, and, with Colonel Ogden’s regi- 
ment, covened the passage of his men across the cause- 
way. 

Molly would not leave her husband’s body, but lifting it 
on the gun, she tied it there, and then, by running, kept 
near to the retiring battery, the troops greeting her with ac- 
clamations as she passed. 

The British forces promptly followed the hard-pressed 
Continentals over the causeway, anticipating a complete vic- 
tory, and the battle speedily became general. But Wash- 
ington was now upon his own ground, and supported by 
generals in whom he could trust implicitly. The enemy 
made successive attacks on his front, left and right, but were 
repelled. A tremendous cannonade was kept up on both 
sides, and seldom had the peace of the Sabbath been so 
rudely disturbed as on that sultry summer day. 

General Wayne, whose headlong valor had justly earned 
him the sobriquet of “ Mad Anthony, ” occupied an ad- 
vanced position in an orchard, from which he maintained a 
brisk and galling fire on the British centre. He repeatedly 
repulsed the Royal Grenadiers, who sought to dislodge him. 
It soon began to appear that the success of the enemy’s at- 
tack depended on driving him from his position. 

Saville was directed by Lafayette to ride over to Wayne 
with a cheering message, to watch the struggle, and report 
to him its progress. 

When Saville reached Wayne’s advanced post. Colonel 
Moncton, who commanded the Royal Grenadiers, was de- 
ploying them in the open field, as for a quiet evening 
parade. It was evident that he was preparing for the stern 
and silent use of the bayonet, on which the British troops 
justly prided themselves. 

When his men were in line, he made them a brief, stirring 
address, in which he appealed to every motive which could 


A MASTER MIND AND WILL. ^29 

inspire an English soldier with unflinching courage. His 
voice was distinctly heard by those awaiting the, assault, and 
at times even his words were intelligible. He next placed 
himself at their head, and led them in solid column against 
the Americans. They presented a truly magnificent sight 
in the warm, mellow light of the declining day. With the 
same firmness and steadiness that they would pass in review 
on some gala occasion, the poor fellows advanced toward the 
point where very many would meet wounds and death. So 
even and perfect was their step, as they marched shoulder to 
shoulder, that a cannon ball from an American battery en- 
filaded a whole platoon, knocking the muskets out of each 
man’s hand ; but, with scarce a change in muscle, the ob- 
scure heroes strode on with their comrades, although un- 
armed. Moncton walked at their head, erect, stately, reso- 
lute, and his bearing was emulated by every officer in the 
column. Their silent progress was more impressive than if 
every step was accompanied by shouts and volleys. Their 
march was the very sublimity of courage, the perfect 
flower of discipline, and it seemed as if it must be resist- 
less. 

They are now within a few rods of their equally silent, 
waiting foe ; and yet there is no hesitation, no change in 
the time of their strong, steady tramp. They are now so 
near that the opposing ranks can look into each other’s be- 
grimed and heat-swollen faces. The same stern resolve char- 
acterizes the countenances of each dark array. To distant 
spectators the two clouds of war seem almost together ; the 
lightning flashes must come soon. 

The American firelocks are leveled, not evenly, covering 
the whole advancing column, but concentrating on every 
officer visible. They are but a few yards away. Suddenly 
Moncton steps to the right, waves his sword aloft, and 
shouts. 


33 ° 


JV£A/^ TO NATURE'S HEART 


“Charge 1“ 

Wayne’s signal is equally prompt. A volley from the 
whole length of his line rings out ; then, lowering their 
empty pieces, his men rush forward to meet the coming 
shock with answering bayonet thrust. 

Moncton fell, and also almost every other British officer ; 
but his heroic column, stunned but for a moment, pressed 
on, and there was at once a desperate hand-to-hand conflict 
over the prostrate commander, one party seeking to retain, 
and the other to obtain his body. At last the Continentals 
secured the lifeless form of the gallant colonel, and carried 
it to the rear. 

If the English courage was steady and unflinching, that 
of the Americans was reckless and enthusiastic. Gradually 
they pushed back the struggling and almost unofficered 
grenadiers, until, convinced that their assault had failed, 
they gave way. This practically decided the fate of the day. 
The sun was setting, and the British forces soon retired to 
the height whereon Washington had rallied Lee’s disordered 
troops in the morning. Throughout the long twilight, 
something of the Sabbath’ s stillness settled down on a region 
that had, throughout the day, resounded with the horrid din 
of war. The battle-field, and the whole line of Lee’s disas- 
trous retreat, presented one strange feature. There were 
wounded and mangled bodies in abundance, but everywhere 
were found men dead or helpless, without a scratch upon 
their persons. The torrid sun had smote both parties as 
with the wrath of heaven. 

Washington and his suite lay down under a broad oak, 
with the dead all around them, intending to renew the con- 
flict with the light of the following morning ; but, while the 
Americans, from the fatigues of the day, were sunk in ob- 
livion almost as deep as that of those whom the morning re- 
veille could not awaken, Clinton stole away with his baffled 


A MASTER MIND AND WILL. 


331 


army, leaving his severely wounded to the mercy of his 
foes. When, at daybreak, the advance was sounded, the 
Americans found only the deserted campaign ground. 

It was a drawn battle ; but, if Lafayette had commanded 
the advance instead of Lee, and had Morgan, with his brave 
riflemen — who, but three miles distant, chafed all day with- 
out orders — attacked the enemy’s rear, history might have 
given a different record. 


332 


NEAR TO NATURE’S HEART 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE REVELATION. 

S AVILLE was naturally brave, but no man ever had a 
greater sense of gladness than he at having passed un- 
scathed through the manifold perils of the day. Though 
wearied to the point of exhaustion, at the close of the battle, 
he sought Molly, as soon as his duties permitted, and tried 
to comfort the poor creature. He found her crooning and 
wailing by turns, at the side of her husband’s body. 

“ Ah ! Misther Saville,” she said, “it’s now I think on 
ivery oncivil word iver I spake to him. If I could only 
have him aloive once more, Td be swater than honey all the 
toime. Faix, sur, Larry was a kind, dacent man, an’ I’ll 
niver git his loikes agin.” 

The story of Molly’s action on the death of her husband 
had spread like wildfire through the army, and on the fol- 
lowing morning General Greene presented her, all begrimed 
with powder -and blood, to Washington, who, with words 
of praise and sympathy, conferred on her the commission of 
sergeant, while he afterward caused her name to be placed 
upon the list of half pay officers for life. 

Saville saw that Larry had a soldier’s burial, and then 
gave Molly the means of defraying her expenses back to her 
home in the Highlands, to which she soon returned. Im- 
mediately after her arrival thither, she went out to see Vera, 
to whom she related, with all the vividness of her demon- 
strative style, the events of the battle, enlarging upon her 


THE REVELATION. 


333 


own loss, the dangers to which Saville had been exposed, 
and his kindness to her. 

Her tidings, while in part reassuring, threw Vera into an 
agony of anxiety for the safety of her lover. Now, in his 
absence, she realized, as never before, how necessary he (vas 
to her very existence ; and again, with her old importunity, 
she besought Heaven in his behalf, though not with her old 
and simple faith ; and she watched for his return with al- 
most sleepless vigilance. 

In the mean time, Saville, finding that there was no further 
prospect of fighting, proceeded on his journey to Philadel- 
phia, and, after attending to his ofiQcial business, purchased 
a beautiful ring for Vera. Returning, he taxed his poor 
horse heavily, in his impatience to see again the one who 
grew dearer every day. The dangers he had passed through, 
and the uncertainty of life in that stormy period, made him 
feel that he could delay the consummation of his love no 
longer, and he half resolved to put his hopes to the test on 
his return. By rapid riding, he gained sufficient time to 
enable him to spend a day or two at the cabin, and still re- 
port as early as he was expected. 

When he met Vera, he found that the knowledge of what 
he had passed through had preceeded him. Never before 
had her reception been so marked by a clinging tenderness, 
and he thought exultantly, “ She cannot give me up.'' But 
she soon clouded his face and hopes by saying, 

“ O Theron ! God does answer prayer. It seems to me 
that I have entreated Him in your behalf even in my troub- 
led dreams, as well as in every waking moment, and He has 
spared you to me.” 

“Is her faith still so unshaken in a mere name ?” he 
sadly asked himself. “ Will it ever be otherwise ?” 

After an early supper, he led her out to one of their fa- 
vorite haunts upon the hill side, and gave her the ring he had 


334 


NEAR TO NATURES HEART. 


brought He was pleased to see her unbounded delight 
and gratitude, and he said, 

“ When you no longer wish my love, you may return this 
ring to me. ’ ’ 

“You will never receive it again,"' she answered, with 
tears in her eyes for if I were dying, Theron, I could 
not give it back on that condition." 

It proved a little too large, but she obviated this defect by 
drawing off the ring given by her mother, and then, putting 
Saville’s gift in its place, she kept it there by the plain gold 
band which she had worn so long. 

“ That is the way it should be," she said ; “ for I have 
felt from the first that I had mother's approval of my love." 
Then she added musingly, “ How well I remember her 
words when she gave me this ring !" 

“ What were they, Vera ?" 

She blushed deeply, for she had spoken half unconscious- 
ly, not realizing the nature of the explanation that must fol- 
low. 

“ Tell me her words, Saville again gently asked. 

‘ ‘ They remind me that I have, in part, disobeyed them, 
Theron ; but I trusted you so completely, and all has hap- 
pened so strangely and differently from what any one could 
have anticipated, that I could not do otherwise." 

His curiosity and hope were now both aroused. Was the 
way opening for explanations that, in any event, must soon 
come } So he said, 

“ I know you have acted right, darling. Were your 
mother living, she could have found no fault ; but what did 
she say when she gave the ring ?" 

“ I cannot hide anything from you, Theron," she said, 
turning away her face. “ You must remembe the circum- 
stances. Mother was leaving me alone and friendless. She 
feared I would be peculiarly unshielded. I would have been 


THE REVELATION. 


335 


but for you. Think of what I passed through in your long 
year of absence ! think of the condition in which you found 
me 1 O Theron ! how much I owe to you. Well, mother 
evidently feared I might meet with some one not so honor- 
able as you are, and she made me promise that 1 would not 
permit caresses, even from one I loved, until he should wed 
me before God’s minister with this ring. I readily gave the 
promise, for I did not then know what love was. But I 
could not keep it. When you raised me from the floor, the 
night father spoke those dreadful words, I knew I could 
trust you. I turned to you as instinctively as that climbing 
vine to yonder oak. I could not help it, and I knew that 
all would be as mother wished in your own good time.” 

As she spoke he grew very pale, and, at her last words, 
buried his face in his hands with a deep groan. It seemed, 
for the moment, as if the dead mother stood between him 
and her child. 

“ Theron !” she said in great alarm. 

He did not answer. 

“ Theron, are you ill ?” 

‘‘ Yes, yes, sick at heart ; my evil destiny will conquer 
yet.” 

“ O Theron !” she pleaded, laying her hand on his 
shoulder ; “ tell me your trouble. You need dread no evil 
that I can avert.” 

“ If that were only true,” he answered, looking at her 
with a face so full of trouble that her tears started in sym- 
pathy. 

“ How can it be otherwise than true she asked, begin- 
ning to dread, she knew not what. “Can you think me 
so ungrateful that I will not make any sacrifice for you ?” 

“You will never be ungrateful, Vera, and you have had, 
thus far, no more cause for gratitude than I have ; but I fear 
you cannot — mark, I do not say will not — I fear you can- 


336 


NEA/^ TO NAT [/EE’S HEART. 


not give up your superstition — your faith in what I am sure 
is all delusion — for my sake ; and yet you must, or else 
the chance for a happiness greater than I thought possible 
passes away from both. ” 

‘ ‘ Theron, your w'ords are as dark as night. What can 
you mean .? Why are you so pale ?” cried Vera in great 
distress. 

‘ ‘ I may as well tell you now, ’ ’ he said, after a moment, 
“ what I have been on the point of telling you before ; but 
I hesitated, as much for your sake as my own. I could no 
more endure the thought of your losing this happy future 
than of losing it myself ; and I hoped that in time, and 
under greater enlightenment of mind, you would outgrow 
the imaginary obstacles in the way. I too have broken the 
letter of a promise that I made you at your mother’s grave. 
I said, in effect, that I would not try to lead you to forget 
or depart from her teachings ; nor would I, save in one re- 
spect, for her influence and that of nature have made you 
the sweetest, purest woman that ever breathed. But I could 
not be loyal to you and to your happiness and still keep that 
hasty pledge, for since that day our mutual love has grown 
till it absorbs us both, and in the wretched past an event 
occurred which would render the consummation of our love 
impossible, did I leave your baseless faith undisturbed. 
While it comforted you after your mother’s death, I kept the 
promise. When, ere we were aware, we both began to ’ove 
each other in such a way that the terms brother and sister 
no longer meant the truth ; when your father’ s words taught 
me that this wilderness must continue to be your home, and 
that the position in society, which I that day had resolved you 
should have, became impossible, then I commenced trying 
to teach you what I firmly believe myself. I could sacrifice 
my own happiness ; I had decided to do so, and your quick 
intuition read my decision in my face. And yet how glad 


THE REVELATION. 


337 


I was that I saw, as I believed, a way in which we both 
could be happy by becoming one for life ! I then tried to 
undermine your delusion ; I sought to do it gently, that 
your old beliefs might pass away^s clouds from the sky/’ 

Just then, in ominous contradiction of his words, the set- 
ting sun entered a dark cloud, and the gloom fell on the 
faces of both. 

“ Vera, before I saw you I thought I had spoiled my life ; 
not by a crime, but by an act of folly. It is for you to de- 
cide whether my life is to be blighted by its consequences ; 
for your sake — not my own ; my pure, strong love needs no 
priestly sanction— for your sake, it cuts me to the heart to 
say it. I cannot, in truth, take you before a minister and 
wed you, with that ring. While my heart is free to love 
you, in the eye of our barbarous laws I am a married man.” 

She started violently and became deathly pale, but she 
only moaned, 

“ O Theron, Theron ! I should have known this before.” 

“ Hear me, hear the whole wretched story, before you 
condemn me!” he cried passionately. “I could have 
brought a minister hither, and it might have been years be- 
fore you learned the truth, if ever ; but no deceit shall ever 
sully my relations to you. When we were first acquainted. 
I did not tell you of my wife, because I never spoke of her 
to any one, not even to my mother. I was seeking to for- 
get her hateful existence. When ycur father’s words and 
your decision to remain with him prevented me from carry- 
ing out my self-sacrificing plan, then the thought came : 
Teach her the truth, show her how valueless are the forms 
and ceremonies which are based on falsehood.” 

“ But they are right and true to me,” said Vera sobbing. 

“ They cannot continue to be so, darling, after you have 
calmly considered the proof to the contrary ; and when you 
come to know how cruelly I am placed, how utterly I am 


338 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART 


absolved from every bond save that which is purely legal, 
you will have pity ; you will see that I have a right to seek 
your love. And he told her the whole story of his mar- 
riage, softening no part that was to his own disadvantage ; he 
spoke with intense bitterness of his wife’s recent and shame- 
ful marriage at the very time when he owed his life to Vera’s 
tireless care ; “ and this marriage,'*’ he said, “ was solem- 
nized with all the forms that are called sacred. ’ ’ 

“ And now, Vera,” he concluded, ‘‘how could I have 
acted otherwise ? I believe that this life is all. It is all, ” 
he said earnestly; “everything in nature proves it. We 
have before us but this brief life. Alas ! in my calling, how 
uncertain it is ! Since our short day must pass swiftly at 
best, shall we waste our waking moments over delusions ? 
Shall we let what men imagined in the ignorant past stand 
in the way of real and practical happiness ? Only obstacles 
created by the untaught minds of the superstitious are stand- 
ing in our way. Shall these unsubstantial spectres frighten 
us from a lifetime of deep content ? In a little while we 
shall cease to be, and the chance for happiness is gone.” 

But Vera drew another inference than that which he in- 
tended, and in a tone that pierced his heart she cried, 

“ Then where is mother.?” 

He was silent, for her distress was so great that it seemed 
a cruel thing to say that all that remained of one so dear was 
corrupting in a distant grave. He never realized before how 
harsh and abrupt an end his creed gave to human life. He 
tried to comfort himself with the thought that her intense 
grief would gradually pass away, and that realizing that she 
had in sad truth lost her mother, she would cling all the 
more closely to him as her only certain possession. 

He endeavored to soothe her, but for a long time his 
efforts seemed utterly vain. At last she grew calm enough 
to falter. 


THE REVELATION, 


339 


I am in the dark, Theron. It seems as if the mountain 
had opened at my feet. I dare not move lest I fall into the 
gulf. I don’t know what’s right, I don’t know what’s true ; 
my mind is confused, and my heart aches as if it would 
break O mother ! are you indeed lost to me forever ? If 
you should die, Theron, would I never see you again ? 
This is terrible, terrible. Please take me home. I cannot 
think. Perhaps to morrow some light will come. I am in 
thick darkness now. ’ * 

He could only comply with her request, and hope that 
time and thought would become his allies. She told her 
father that she was not well, and shut herself up in her own 
little room ; but for hours her mind was so stunned and be- 
wildered that it could not act coherently, 


340 


N£:A/i TO NATURE'S HEART, 


CHAPTER XXXIL 


GROPING HER WAY. 


HE night to Saville v/as one of sleepless anxiety. He 



X felt that he was at the crisis of his life. Indeed, if 
Vera gave him back his ring, saying that, under the circum- 
stances, she could not accept of his love, what would life be 
but a painful burden ? The result of the council which he 
knew her to be holding with her own heart, and the mysteri- 
ous faith which he had found so hard to overcome, might 
blast the hope upon which he built all his future. When 
she appeared, the following morning, he scarcely dared lift 
his eyes to her pale face, lest he should there see the impress 
of a determination which he might not be able to overcome. 
But, instead of a strong resolve, he saw only irresolution 
and trouble, her mobile features revealing the deep dis- 
quietude and uncertainty of her mind. He also saw, from 
her greeting and wistful eyes, how tenaciously her heart 
clung to him. His manner was gentleness and sympathy 
itself, and while she evidently longed to receive it in her old, 
frank manner, as her right, she hesitated, as if it were for- 
bidden and fraught with danger Her restraint did not 
dishearten him, and he thought exultantly, 

“ She is mine. Her love will not permit her to give me 
up ; her old beliefs are shaken. Time, gentleness, and the 
truth shall be my strong allies, and to them she will surely 


Her father was too preoccupied to notice that anything 


GROPING HER WAY. 


341 


was amiss, and soon after the morning meal was over, de- 
parted on one of his lonely tramps into the forest. 

Saville led Vera again to their old, secluded haunt on the 
hill-side, hoping that ere the day closed he might satisfy her 
mind sufficiently to secure an acquiescence in his plans, 
which, if at first hesitating and full of fear, would soon be- 
come hearty and decided. 

“I learn by your face and manner, dearest,” he said, 
“ that you will not send me away a despairing and reckless 
man.” 

She shivered at these words, for they opened a new vista 
of difficulty and danger. 

She sat down on a mossy rock and put her hands to her 
head, saying, in pathetic, childlike simplicity, 

“ I can’t seem to think any more. I can only feel and 
suffer. My head is still all confused, and my heart is like 
lead.” 

. “Let me think for you, Vera,” he said, taking one of 
her cold, passive hands. “ Let me assure you, also, that I 
do not consider my cause so desperate and my views so un- 
sound that I must take advantage of your weakness, and 
urge you to a hasty decision. I wish to carry your reason 
and all pure, womanly feelings with me at every step.” 

“ O Theron ! would to God I knew what is right, what 
is true ! And you say there is no God. I am bewildered 
and lost.” 

“ The impulses of nature are right, Vera. The unerring 
instincts of our own hearts are true, if in each case our rea- 
son approves.” 

“ The impulses of nature are right,” she repeated slowly 
after him. 

“ Yes,” he replied eagerly ; and you, as nature’s near- 
est and most perfect child, will soon see that I am correct. 
What we feel — what we think within our own breasts — that 


342 


ATEAJ? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


we know. What we see and experience in nature without 
we also know ; but what else are we sure of ? I am not 
asking you to peril your happiness on what some old, bigoted 
Jews wrote a millennium or two ago ; but to build it surely 
on what your own eyes, your own heart and reason, assure 
you of to-day. I am here at your side ; I am loyal to you 
to my heart’s core. To the utmost extent of my ability you 
can depend upon me ; while I live ” 

‘‘Ah ! Theron, there is the terrible part of your belief — 
‘ While you live.’ Do you not see that you are standing 
on a little point, with a black, rayless gulf all around you ? 
What if you should fall ? What if you should die ? Where 
could I find you ?” 

“ Dismiss these morbid fancies, dearest. There is no 
need of supposing that I shall fall or die. I have the pre- 
sentiment of a long and happy life with you, if I can only 
dissipate the clouds of superstition from your mind, and, 
after life is over, we shall sleep and not be conscious of our 
loss. But now, long before that deep oblivion comes, to 
see a bliss beyond that of your fancied heaven, almost within 
our grasp, and yet to be denied — this is more than human 
fortitude can endure. Let me teach you the truth from your 
own experience, and pardon the seeming egotism of my 
argument, for it is all for your sake as .truly as my own. 
The evening you buried your mother you said I saved your 
heart from breaking. The voice of living sympathy brought 
relief. Your mother did not help you, simply because she 
could not. She was sleeping, and even the voice of her 
child could not awaken her. If you will calmly think of it, 
she has been lost to you from the moment she breathed her 
last, and all that she has been to you since has been due to 
your vivid memory and strong imagination. At no time 
can you prove her presence or show that she gave you any 
practical help.” 


GROPING HER WA Y, 


343 


“ O Theron ! I never felt so orphaned before/’ she 
sobbed. 

“ I know my words hurt you cruelly, darling, but they 
are necessary to your final health and happiness. When 
even your light touch bound up my wound, it caused me 
agony for the moment ; but I am here to day because of that 
suffering. Go back with me to the time when I found you 
near your old desolated home. You were embracing the 
unresponsive mound beneath which your mother was sleep- 
ing, and the cold, unanswering silence was breaking your 
heart. You had become timidity itself, feeling justly that 
you had no protector. As soon as I appeared, you had a 
strong arm to lean upon. Has not your life improved since 
that day ? Has it not grown fuller, more complete and sat- 
isfying ?’ ’ 

“ I should have been dead but for your coming, Theron.” 

“ That which is worse than death might have happened,” 
he said shudderingly. “ Think of the perils to which you 
were exposed before I came. I have been to the point of 
Butter Hill, where you escaped a fate too frightful to be 
imagined. As I pictured you climbing that awful precipice, 
I trembled and grew faint. Who helped you then ?” 

“ It seemed as if God helped me.” 

“ But was there in fact any practical help save that which 
these little hands and feet gave, bruised and bleeding as they 
must have been ? Kindly nature held out a shrub here and 
there, and the granite rock, more merciful than your imag- 
ined deity, gave you a few crevices on which to step for a 
perilous moment. Your own weary feet carried you on 
that lonely, desperate journey home, and when your natural 
and human strength gave out, you fell. No one helped 
you, and, were it not for the accident of old Gula stumbling 
against your unconscious form, you would have perished 
within a few yards of your own door. And if, a little later. 


344 


NBA/? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


the ruffians had found you in the cabin, who would have 
saved you ? Who has saved thousands, equally helpless, 
from every outrage that incarnate fiends could perpetrate ? 
Poor, inoffensive Gula was rescued by a human hand. 
My life was saved by these dear hands. Tell me when and 
where any real and practical blessing came to our lives that 
was not brought by human hands, and prompted by human 
love.^’ 

She turned and clung to him almost in terror, as she said, 

“ Theron, is this arm, which death may at any moment 
paralyze, my only defense ?’ ’ 

“ What have been the facts, darling? Who has helped 
you ? Who rescued me when I should have soon died 
from my wound, as that thing which the law calls my wife 
devoutly wished ?” 

“ There seems reason in what you say,” she said ; “ and 
yet it is so contrary to all that I ever hoped or believed that 
I cannot grasp it,” and her brow contracted for a few mo- 
ments in deep thought. 

He did not interrupt her, wishing to give his words time 
to make their impression. 

At last she said slowly, ” I must try to feel my way out 
of this darkness, and come to some clear sense of what your 
words mean and involve. I shall have to trust you, Theron. 
You can easily deceive such an ignorant child as I am, 
but I know you will not. I have always lived in these 
mountains, and mother and the Bible have been my only 
teachers. ’ ' 

‘‘You forget nature, Vera. I cannot help feeling that 
she has taught you more than all. It is her influence that 
makes you so docile and receptive. Your mind opens to 
the truth, like the flower buds to the rain and dew, when- 
ever they fall.” 

‘‘ Alas ! the resemblance is too true. You might put 


GROPING HER WAY. 345 

within the petals of the silly flowers that which would poison 
them, and they would know no better at first. ’ ' 

“ And can you think I would try to poison your mind, 
Vera ?’' 

^ “ Not willingly and knowingly, Theron ; and yet I 

tremble at the thoughts you suggest, and fear they involve 
more to me than you realize. Besides, if you are right, so 
many must be mistaken ; at least I think so. I am so ig- 
norant, and my life has been so remote from the world, that 
I distrust myself on every .side. You say that the great and 
wise believe as you do ?" 

Here Saville launched out with enthusiasm and sincerity. 
“ The learned men of France,"' he said, “ are the great 
thinkers of the world. They are rapidly emancipating their 
own nation, and their ideas are finding an increasing num- 
ber of adherents in this country and England, especially 
among the educated classes. Only those who will not or 
cannot think for themselves hold to the old superstitions ; 
and in a generation or two more, all our barbarous laws will 
have to be remodeled in accordance with truth and reason. 
Men will evolve their laws from their own nature and needs, 
and hence they will cease to be mere arbitrary and irrational 
restraints. By following the impulses and teachings of na- 
ture, we may hasten forward that golden age. It was one of 
my dearest hopes that I might, in this new land, contribute 
much toward reorganizing society, and breaking the chains 
under which so many are groaning. Perhaps I have been 
made to feel how galling and unnatural they are that I might 
be fitted for the task." 

‘ ‘ Who has arranged it so that you might be fitted for this 
task?" asked Vera innocently. 

“ Well, destiny, nature, or perhaps I should more cor- 
rectly say, it is a happy chance," answered Saville, some- 
what confused. 


346 


JVEA/? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


“It’s all so strange and vague to me,” said Vera de- 
spondently. “ These questions are too deep for me. I 
cannot follow you. There seems nothing sure existing but 
yourself, and in a few hours, you will be gone, and then 
comes the awful uncertainty whether you will ever return.” 
After a few moments she added, with an averted face and 
burning blush, “ As things are now, Theron, we cannot be 
truly married.” 

“ Yes, Vera, it will be my only true marriage. Was that 
a true marriage which joined me temporarily to a woman 
whom I loathe and hate, though solemnized by every priestly 
and superstitious form ? Nature joins our hands, hearts, 
and lives, and makes us one in reality.” 

“Would it be true marriage to your mother ?” asked 
Vera, in a low tone. 

“ My mother holds to the old views,” said Saville hesi- 
tatingly. “ While we love each other dearly, we differ rad- 
ically on many points. She does not approve of this war 
for liberty.”. 

“ It would not seem a true marriage to my mother, if she 
were living, Theron,” continued Vera in the same low, 
troubled voice. 

“ Probably not Vera. With her prejudices and beliefs, the 
mere formal rite, which is impossible, would be essential. 
But your mother is dead, and I am here.” 

“ The Bible would be against it, Theron.” 

“ I suppose it would be. But, as the Bible is a mere ex- 
pression of human opinion, we have a belter right to our 
opinions in this more enlightened age.” 

“ Would many people, in our own age, regard it as true 
marriage ?’ ’ 

“ Not yet, I fear,” he said sadly ; “ but they will in time. 
But what is the world to us ? I am more than willing to 
share your seclusion among these beautiful mountains. As 


GROPING HER WA K. 


347 


long as we know that we are doing right, what need we care 
what the world thinks ?” 

“If there is no God to whom we are responsible,” she 
said in sudden recklessness, “ and if in a few days we shall 
cease to be, why need we care what is right ? It seems to 
me the words right and wrong have no meaning. The only 
question is. What do we want to do } We must hastily 
snatch at whatever is within our reach, and make the most 
of it while we can.” 

“ Now, Vera, darling, those words are not like your old 
self,” he replied, with a slight accent of reproach. “ You 
have only to follow the instincts of your pure, womanly 
nature to do what is right and shun what is wrong.” 

“ But your words are sweeping away all on which I based 
my motives and rules of action,"’ she continued, in the 
same desperate tone. “ The Heavenly Father that I tried 
to please, as a dutiful child, is but a mere name. The 
mother, whose gentle teaching echoed His will, has ceased to 
exist. I am to live a few uncertain days, and then also be- 
come nothing. In accordance with all I have been taught 
to believe true, I have no right to sit here listening to your 
love. Neither your mother nor mine would believe it right, 
and, strange to say, I have a guilty fear in my own heart 
while doing so. I don’t understand it And yet, if you 
are not mistaken in what you have told me, why need I 
care.? You are here. I am sure of to-day. That is all.” 

He was appalled at the reckless and unnatural expression 
of her face. Instead of the pure, gentle light which usually 
beamed from her deep blue eyes, it almost seemed as if a 
lurid flame were burning back of them. He asked himself, 
in wonder, Is this Vera ? But he only said, gently and 
soothingly, 

“The truth involves such great and radical changes in 
your belief that you are confused, darling. You will see 


348 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


everything calmly in its proper light by-and-by ; and, that 
you may, I will give you an abundance of time. 

“ ‘ Time !’ ” she repeated, with a bitter laugh ; “ that 
is the only thing in which we need to practice economy. In 
a few hours you will mount your horse and vanish like my 
other delusions. What is sure, save this fleeting moment V’ 

Then, in strong revulsion of feeling, she commenced 
weeping bitterly. 

“ There is something wrong in all this, Theron,"" she sob- 
bed. “ I am frightened. I tremble at myself, and am sore 
perplexed. It seems aiS if I were falling down some black 
chasm, and even your hand could not reach me. The im- 
pulses of nature, as you call them, and conscience are all at 
war. I don’t understand myself at all. I only know that 
something is wrong, and that there must be a dreadful mis- 
take somewhere. Have pity on me and take me home. ’ ’ 

The man of theories was almost as greatly perplexed as 
herself, but he took comfort in the thought that she was un- 
strung by her strong emotions ; that her trust in her old 
beliefs had given way so suddenly that she was too bewil- 
dered to see the solid ground where he stood. With sooth- 
ing, gentle words he led her to the cabin. 

“ I will go now,"’ he said ; “ but shall return in a day 
or two, and then you will be able to see everything clearer, 
and you will be your old happy self.” 

“ Theron, do not go,” she said, with such sudden and 
passionate earnestness that he was surprised. Then she 
added, almost instantly, in a tone of the deepest sadness, 
“Yes, you must go, you must go. Good-by,” and she 
hastened to the seclusion of her own room. 

He went away feeling that all was still in doubt. 


STRONG TEMPTATION, 


349 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

STRONG TEMPTATION. 

S EVERAL days passed before Saville's duties permitted 
him to be absent again. To him they were desperately 
long, but to Vera they were interminable. And yet she al- 
most dreaded to see him, for she could not solve the ques- 
tions of right and duty. Her heart sided with him and his 
arguments with pleadings so strong that it seemed they 
would not be denied. The doubts he had raised in her 
mind grew stronger as she dwelt upon them. 

*'* If this life is all,'" she sighed again and again, “ how 
unspeakably dreadful to lose this one chance of happiness ! 
But, even if I yield, will I be happy?’’ she asked herself in 
prophetic dread. “ I have such a strange, guilty fear in 
giving up all my old belief, and doing what mother forbade. 
If I could only become his wife, as mother said, I should be 
the happiest, proudest woman that ever lived. But now, 
although he is so true, I dare not trust him. I dare not 
trust myself. I feel that it is a leap into the dark. Oh ! 
that I knew what was right ; oh I that I knew what was true ! 

“ And yet I cannot give him up. It would now be a 
million fold worse than death. Can there be anything more 
dreadful in all the future even if the Bible is true? How 
much easier it would be to give him every drop of my heart’s 
blood than to give him back this ring! How strange it 
feels upon my finger ! It burns like a circlet of fire. It 
can’t be right. Oh ! is it very wrong ?” 


350 


ATEAJ? TO NATURE’S HEART, 


Thus, by turns, doubt, passion, fear, and love surged over 
her mind till she thought she would lose her reason. 

Her old playmates, the flowers, began to look at her re- 
proachfully, the notes of the birds to grow strangely plain- 
tive, and the breathings of the winds among the trees were 
long-drawn sighs, responsive to her own. 

“ It is just as mother said it would be,’’ she moaned ; 
“ nature frowns upon me. It must be wrong. But if I 
am mistaken, if she were mistaken, if this is only a sick 
fancy of my disquieted mind — oh / that I knew what was 
true and right. ’ ’ 

One lovely afternoon, weary and torn by conflicting emo- 
tions, she went out to the old haunt on the hill side. In 
her distress she threw herself upon the ground, and buried 
her burning face in the cool grass. How long, in her deep 
preoccupation, she lay there, she did not know, but at last 
a kind voice said, 

“Vera.” 

‘ ‘ O Theron ! have you come once more ?’ ’ 

“ Yes, darling ; I could not come before.” 

Then she became silent, and seemed under the most pain- 
ful restraint. She was so unlike her former self that he 
sighed deeply. 

She burst into tears as she said, “ That is the way it is 
all ending ; sighs, sighs, only sighs.” 

“ Must it all end in sighs ?” he asked very sadly. 

“ I fear that it will anyway. Theron, I get no light. I 
cannot give you up, and yet my heart forebodes evil till I 
tremble with dread.” 

“ You are not well, Vera. Your hands are feverish, and 
your pulse rapid and uneven. ” 

“ It but faintly echoes the unrest of my heart. I have 
thought and thought till my head swam in a dizzy whirl. 
My love has been your ever-present and eloquent advocate. 


STRONG TEMPTATION, 


351 


At times, I have been on the point of recklessly shutting my 
eyes, and of letting you lead me whither you would/' 

“ My only wish, darling, is to lead you to deep content 
and lasting peace/' 

“ How mockingly impossible that happy condition seems ! 
O Theron 1 I don't understand myself at all. It seems 
but the other day, and I was a simple child ; now I am I 
know not what. My own feelings remind me of Shak- 
speare's tragedies, which I never half understood before. 
Even in my dreams I am walking on the crumbling edge of 
an abyss. Even if I yield, something tells me that I shall 
lose you. It can't be right, Theron, it can’t be right, 
though your words and your unspeakable kindness to me 
make it seem so. I dare not think of your mother, much 
less of my own. Did my poor, dying mother have a pro- 
phetic insight into the future when she charged me, ‘ Be true 
to your God and your faith ; be true to my poor teachings 
and your own pure, womanly nature. Let the Bible guide 
you in all things, and then you will always have peace in 
your heart, and find sympathy in nature without. But rest 
assured, however wise and greatly to your advantage anything 
may seem, if your Bible is against it, do not hesitate ; turn 
away, for if will not end well. Keep thy heart with all dili- 
gence. When it troubles you, and your old playmates, the 
innocent flowers, look at you reproachfully, something will 
be wrong' ? Theron, they do look at me reproachfully, and 
my heart is full of strange disquietude and fear. Mother 
said, ‘ Keep true, and our separation will be brief.' My 
feelings of late seem to rob me of the right of even renqeni- 
bering her. Half-forgotten sentences froin her bqrned Bible 
come into my mind like ligktniiig flasl^es. One of these is 
ever ringing in my ears, I doiiH remember its connection, 
but the words are dreadful, and they too often express my 
condition, T^ey are, ‘ A fearful looking for of judg- 


352 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 

ment. * Then again I almost see the Saviour looking at me 
so reproachfully — just as He must have looked on Peter 
when he denied his Lord. And Shakspeare, too, which 
you say is one of the greatest books of the world, seems to 
echo the Bible. The writer must have understood the hu- 
man heart, for he describes mine. He gives the experience 
of those who did wrong, and he portrays myself. But when 
I think of you and your devoted loyalty to me when any one 
else would have cast me off, I have not the heart to deny 
you anything. As for myself, I would rather die a thousand 
deaths than be separated from you. If I were only sure 
what was right — that is the only ground on which I can end 
this cruel conflict. " 

“ And that is the only ground on which I wish you to 
end it,” he said gently and soothingly, taking her hand. 

But he was surprised at the intensity and far-reaching 
character of her thoughts and emotions. Were it not for the 
external shadows which had fallen so darkly on her life, she 
had seemed to him almost an emanation of the sunshine, a 
being akin to her companions, the flowers, and with no ca- 
pabilities for the dark, passionate thoughts which were surg- 
ing up in her mind. Was nature failing him who had been 
her disciple and votary ? Her impulses in this, her child, 
were far from being satisfactory. In his strong delusion he 
then could not understand that it was Vera’s very nearness 
to nature’s heart that caused the deep unrest and dread as 
he sought to lead her into violation of the subtle laws 
which the Divine Author had caused to permeate all His 
work. 

The eating of the forbidden fruit appeared a simple, harm- 
less act in the mellow light of Eden ; but it broke the safe, 
harmonious control of God’s will, and there has been jar- 
ring, deadly discord, ever since. 

But, assured in his own theories, he reasoned with Vera 


STRONG TEMPTATION. 


353 


long and earnestly. He showed her how the mastery of a 
strong superstition is slow to yield to the light of truth. He 
explained how hard and gradual was the death of ancient 
faiths, which now have no credence whatever. He tried to 
make it clear that the transition from the habitual thought 
and belief of years must be stormy and full of misgivings. 

She listened intently, honestly seeking light ; but when 
he was through, she shook her head sadly, saying, 

“ What you say seems true. I cannot answer you, 1 can- 
not refute your argument ; like a weak woman, I can only 
feel. You men think with your heads, Theron ; but I 
imagine that women think with their hearts.” 

” Well, Vera, both your head and heart will be satisfied 
in time. I feel sure that when I come again the clouds 
and mists will have disappeared. And it may be quite a 
long time before you see me, for this is a sort of farewell 
visit. The French fleet has arrived upon our coast, and 
officers are needed who are thoroughly conversant with both 
the French and English languages. I have been assigned 
to duty on General Sullivan’s staff, and start for the East to- 
morrow.” 

Vera became very pale, and murmured, “ Is God, seeing 
my weakness, sending you awa)^ and into new and greater 
dangers ? This is the worst of it all, for, however I decide, 
you must suffer.” 

” No, Vera, only 2 Lsyou send me away shall I suffer, and 
you only have the power to blight my life. Without your 
love it would be an unendurable burden.” 

” You will never cease to have my love ; but, Theron, I 
have the dreadful presentiment that if I do wrong, I shall 
bring evil upon you, and that would be worse than anything 
that could happen to me.” 

” Well, darling, only time can cure you of these strange, 
wild fancies. I will fortify my heart with hope that when I 


354 


NEAJi TO NATURE'S HEART. 


corae again, you will give me your old joyous and confident 
welcome.’" 

“ Must you go ?” she asked passionately, a reckless light 
coming into her eyes. 

“Yes.” 

She swayed for a moment like a reed shaken by the wind. 
She seemed about to throw herself into his arms, but turned 
away instead, and cowering to the earth, murmured, 

“ May God have pity on us both.” 

He lifted her up with a manner that was at once gentle, 
strong, and protecting, and, placing her hand on his arm, 
led her home. 

“ Good-by, Vera,” he said, pressing her hand only to 
his lips, in a way that was full of respect as well as of ten- 
derness ; “ your healthful mind will soon recover, and be 
clear and strong when I come again.” 

She did not trust herself to speak, but he never forgot the 
expression of her face. 



“May God have Pity on us Both.” 






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1 A 


A STRANGER'S COUNSEL, 


355 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A stranger’s counsel. 

F or several days thereafter Vera’s distress was so great 
that even the self-absorbed inmates of the cabin 
noticed it ; but she satisfied them fully by saying that Mr. 
Saville had been ordered away, and it might be a long time 
before he returned. 

But her spiritual conflict went on with increasing bitter- 
ness, until she grew almost desperate, and feeling that she 
must decide the question one way or the other, the thought 
occurred to her that perhaps at her mother’s grave duty and 
truth might become clearer. Something might there make 
it known whether she was restrained, as Saville said, by the 
strong though shattered powers of an old superstition, or by 
the voices of truth and nature within her heart So, one 
beautiful afternoon about the middle of July, she started, as 
some remorseful pilgrim might seek a shrine famous for its 
sacred powers. 

But when she drew near the familiar place, unwonted 
sounds filled her with apprehension, and soon from a shel- 
tered height she saw that the rocky hill back of the site of 
the old cabin was thronged with soldiers, under whose la- 
bors were rising the walls of a work afterward known as Fort 
Putnam. She could not descend into the valley without 
taking the risk of being seen by many eyes, and meeting 
those from whom she shrank with fearful memories. She 
hastily retraced her steps, weeping as she went, and feeling 


356 


JV£A/? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


more than ever before that Saville’s words were true — that 
she had indeed lost her mother, and that not even her grave 
would be left. 

“ Theron is right ; there is no hope, no protection for me 
but in him,’' she had almost concluded, when the sound 
of a horse’s feet caused her to spring from the path and con- 
ceal herself in a thicket. 

A tall, grave-looking officer soon appeared riding leisure- 
ly toward her. His face was so open and kindly in its ex- 
pression, that Vera felt that she would have had no cause to 
fear him, even if he had discovered her. 

A few steps beyond where she was hiding, a little stream 
fell into a rocky basin, sparkled a moment in the sunlight, 
and then stole on into the deep shade of the forest. 

The stranger seemed pleased with the spot, for he reined 
up his horse, and, removing his hat, wiped his brow, and 
then looked around as if to assure himself that he was alone. 
Having dismounted, he drew a small silver cup from his 
pocket and drank from the rill. He then suffered his eager 
horse to dip his nose deeply into the water of the little 
pool. 

“Hal Lion, that tastes good to us both, doesn’t it?'* 
he said, stroking the mane of the beautiful animal. Then 
he slipped off the bridle, and permitted the horse to crop 
the grass that grew green and rank in the cool, moist spot. 

Laying his hat on a rock near, the stranger sat down and 
took a small book from his pocket, which he quietly read 
for some little time, often moving his lips, and shaking his 
head with a slow, gentle emphasis, as if the words before 
him were full of deep, grave import. 

Vera's tears dried upon her face as she watched him with 
increasing interest. “ I wonder what he is reading," she 
thought. “It must be a good book, for it gives such a 
sweet, noble expression to his face. I could trust that man. 


A STRANGER'S COUNSEL. 


357 


Oh ! that I dared ask counsel of him. Perhaps God has 
given me the chance. Be still, poor, foolish heart,” she 
whispered, putting her hand to her side in her old, charac- 
teristic way. Why am I so timid ?” 

But when, to her great surprise, the stranger laid the book 
down, and, kneeling beside it, commenced praying audibly 
to God, her hesitation vanished. Crossing the intervening 
space with silent tread, she knelt near, and her tears fell fast 
as his voice grew earnest and importunate. The burden 
upon his heart appeared to be his country’s weal ; and in 
his earnest desire that all the blessings of liberty and good 
government might be secured, he quite forgot himself. As 
she listened to his strong pleadings, her own wavering faith 
began to revive, and she felt that a great living Presence was 
near to them both. 

When the stranger rose, and saw the kneeling form of 
Vera, his surprise was very great, and he was almost resent- 
ful, at first, that his privacy had been intruded upon ; but a 
second’s scrutiny of the bowed head and tearful face quite 
disarmed him. 

“What do you wish, my child?” he asked, a little 
coldly, however. 

“ Pardon me,” faltered Vera, rising, and putting her 
hand to her side. “ I — will you please forgive a poor child 
that would fain learn to pray also ?” 

“ Surely I will,” said the stranger kindly, becoming at 
once interested in one who appealed, by her modesty and 
unconscious grace, to both his taste and sympathy. ” Do 
not be so frightened, and tell me how you came here.” 

“ I heard your horse’s steps, and I was afraid and hid 
myself. But I was in sore trouble, sir ; and when I saw 
you kneel in prayer, I thought you might be willing to 
counsel one of the ‘ little ones ’ of whom the Bible speaks.” 

“ I shall be glad to advise you if I can ; but why not take 


358 


NEAR TO NATURES HEART. 


counsel of the Bible itself ? That is the best and surest 
guide." 

“ I have not any, sir ; it was burned, she said, her tears 
falling fast. Then she added eagerly, “ Is the Bible a sure 
guide ?" 

“ Certainly, my child. How came you to doubt it 

“I have been told that a great many people are losing 
faith in it.” 

“ I have not lost faith in it,’’ said the stranger, with quiet 
emphasis. And he took up the little volume reverently, 
adding, “ This book commends itself to my judgment and 
conscience more and more every day.’’ 

“ Is that a Bible.?’’ asked Vera eagerly, and he marked 
her wistful gaze. “ Oh !’’ she added, again putting her 
hand to her side, “ how long it is since I have seen one !" 

“ This is all very strange,’’ said the stranger musingly. 
“ Who are you, my child, and how came you to doubt the 
Bible ?’’ 

“ My name is Vera Brown, sir. We are poor people, 
and live back among these mountains. My mother, who 
is dead, taught me to believe the Bible ; but it was burned 
in our old home by some bad men. I have not been able 
to get one since, and I am forgetting its teachings. And 
yet I have great reason now to remember them. I don’t 
know what is right and true, but I must decide. When I 
saw you kneeling, I thought perhaps God had given me a 
chance to ask.’’ 

“ Perhaps He did, my child. ‘ God is faithful ; He will 
not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able.’ ’’ 

“ Oh ! I have been so tempted,’’ said Vera, bursting into 
tears ; “ and it seemed as if God had left me to struggle 
alone. I was told the Bible was not true.’’ 

“ Who told you this ?’’ asked the stranger, a flush of in- 
dignation rising to his face. 


A STRANGER'S COUNSEL. 


359 

In painful embarrassment she faltered, “ Father does not 
believe as mother did.” 

“ Then remain true to your mother’s teaching,” was the 
decided response; “and rest assured that anything which 
the Bible condemns will end only in wretchedness.” 

” That is what mother told me.” 

” Are you willing to be guided by the Bible ?” asked the 
stranger very gravely. 

“ I will try to be,” faltered Vera, ” as far as I can re- 
member it.” 

“ I will take away all excuse for failure. You shall have 
mine ;” and he placed the little book in her hands. 

” May God bless you, sir, for this gift. I did not expect 
so much. Never did one need it more.” 

” Repay me by doing just as it bids you,” said the 
stranger, with kindly interest kindling in his eyes. 

” God help me to do so 1” she replied in a low tone, but 
growing almost faint as she thought of all that obedience 
involved. ” I have one question more,” she began, but 
stopped in deep embarrassment. 

” Well, my child, do not be afraid ; you may trust me.*’ 

” I was sure of that when I first saw you, sir.” 

“ You were? Well, that pleases me more than all the 
fine things I ever had said to me. But you are not mak- 
ing good your trust, and seem afraid to speak your mind.” 

” I have been told, ” continued Vera, ” that the wise and 
great are the ones who doubt the Bible — people who are 
able to think for themselves — and that those who believe it 
do not or cannot think for themselves.” 

” That is always the arrogant way of these skeptics,” he 
replied indignantly. “Those who do not at once accept 
their ever-shifting vagaries, are set down as fools or bigots.” 
Then, looking at the timid maiden standing before him in 
almost trembling expectancy, his face relaxed, and he added 


360 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


smilingly, “ I will try to satisfy your mind on this point 
also, and will be a trifle more confidential than I imagine 
you have been with me. / think for myself, and have to 
think for a great many others ; and though I may be 
neither ‘ wise' nor ‘ great,' I am General Washington." 

Vera stepped back and bowed reverently. 

“ No, my child, no need of that," said Washington ; 
“ bow only to the Being to whom we have both knelt, and 
on whom we are both alike dependent. Trust and obey 
Him, and all will be well. And now, good-by. If we 
ever meet again, I shall ask you if you have been true to the 
Book in which your mother taught you to believe." 

A sudden change came over the shrinking maiden, and, 
springing forward with the freedom and impetuosity of a 
child, she took his hand, saying, 

“The God of the orphan bless your Excellency. You 
will lead our armies to victory. I know it. God will an- 
swer, through you, your own prayer." 

As Washington looked down into the beautiful, eager face 
turned to him, his eyes moistened, and he said, after a 
moment, 

“ Thank you, my child. Your words and manner 
strengthen me. You have helped me as I hope I have 
aided you. You have your burden to bear here in these 
lonely mountains, as truly as I have mine out in the troubled 
world. For aught I know yours may be the heavier. But 
God will sustain us both if we ask Him. Good-by," and 
he rode away toward West Point. 

Vera afterward learned that his visit there was a transient 
one of inspection. In accordance with a habit to which, 
perhaps, the profound est philosophy will ascribe the final 
success of the American arms, he had sought retirement in 
the forest that he might entreat the Almighty in behalf of 
the cause to which he was devoted. 


THE PARTING, 


361 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


THE PARTING. 


ERA sat down on the rock which he had occupied, 



V and, turning to the chapters that her mother’s teach- 
ings had made most familiar, she read until the deepening 
twilight blurred the page. As she rose she exclaimed, 

“It is true ; it proves itself. It meets my need as the 
light does my eye. My conscience echoes every word. O 
Theron, Theron ! we must indeed parti” and she bowed 
her head upon the little book, and wept until she was al- 
most too exhausted to reach her home. 

For several days following she did little else save read the 
Bible, and think long and deeply over its teachings. Every 
day deepened the conviction that its words were those of One 
Vho had the right to say to His ea'rthly children. My will is 
your only true, safe law of action. The Bible’s teachings 
and principles so commended themselves to her conscience 
and unperverted nature that she felt that she must doubt her 
own existence — doubt everything — or else take her old faith 
back into her heart with more than her old childlike trust ; 
with Ihe strong and assured confidence, rather, of one who 
has tested a friend in a desperate emergency, and found him 
stanch and steadfast. 

Thus the question of right and duty was brought clearly 
to an issue ; the question which she tried to put off in its 
full and final settlement until she had wholly satisfied her 
mind that her lover’s views were fallacious. 


362 


Ar£A/? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


She now felt perfectly sure that he was wrong ; and yet it 
was agony to come to the irrevocable decision which would 
doom herself to the old, lonely, and unprotected state, and, 
what was still worse, to darken his life with grief and perhaps 
despair. What might he not do in his reckless unbelief ? 
In her intense affection she was almost ready to cast herself 
away, deliberately and consciously. Were it not for that 
one word, duty, which meant so much to her, she might 
have been tempted to do so. If she were sure that she 
alone would suffer all the evil consequences, her grateful 
love, her strong desire to make him happy at any cost to her- 
self, might almost lead to the boundless self-sacrifice. 

“ But it would not be right, she murmured ; “ and as 
sure as there is a God, I can never make him happy by do- 
ing wrong.” 

She went out to their trysting-place on the hill-side, where 
she had been so sorely tempted, resolving that she would 
settle the question there once and forever. 

Laying Washington’s Bible on a rock beside her, she 
leaned her head upon it, and sighed, 

“ It’s earth or heaven ; it’s God orTheron ; it’s a snatch 
at something forbidden, dr a long, dark journey to my rest 
for, in giving him up, I banish the possibility of the faintest 
ray of happiness in this world. O God ! help me, like a 
kind, strong Father ; direct and sustain thy helpless child. 
If I must decide against Theron, let no harm come to 
him.” 

Was it an audible voice that answered ? The suggestion 
of inspired words that had helped her once before was so 
strong and vivid that they seemed as if spoken. 

” Commit thy way unto the Lord ; trust also in Him ; 
and He shall bring it to pass.” 

As if directly addressed, she replied, with passionate ear- 
nestness, 


THE PARTING. 363 

** I will obey Thee ; I will trust Thee ; there is no other 
light or safe course for either Theron or myself/’ 

In the solemn hush that followed, she felt as if a kind 
hand rested on her head in blessing. The guilty fear and 
disquietude fled from her heart like ill-omened shadows, 
and in their place came a deeper peace, a stronger sense of 
security than she had ever known before. Her mother’s 
face, which had so long appeared averted in reproachful sor- 
row, was now beaming upon her in approving love. 

“ O God ! I thank Thee,” she cried, lifting her tearful 
face to heaven. “ I will never doubt Thee again. Mother, 
dear mother, you are not lost to me. 1 am as sure you live 
as that I live.” 

If Saville had then come, her strong feeling and revived 
faith would have made the ordeal of parting less hard to en- 
dure ; but week after week passed and still she did not hear 
from him. At last Tascar brought a letter, given him by 
Surgeon Jasper at West Point. It assured her of his con- 
tinued safety, and every word breathed of the love and hope 
which she must disappoint. If it had contained the tidings 
of his death, she could have scarcely wept over it more often 
and bitterly. But she did not waver in her decision ; and 
in the depths of her heart, far beneath all the tumultuous 
waves of her sorrow, the consciousness of peace and security 
remained. She was also gaining an assurance that God, in 
some way, would make her loyalty to duty result in win- 
ning her lover from his skepticism. 

She did not dare to let her mind dwell on their meeting, 
his disappointment, and the inevitable parting that must fol- 
low ; but her constant prayer was that she might be firm, 
and that he might not become reckless and desperate. 

At last one September afternoon Saville came, and, as 
was his custom, stole into the glen that he might surprise 
her. From the hill-side in his descent he ^aw her seated 


364 NE^/^ TO NAT (/EE'S HEART. 

on a ledge that projected from a rock lying near the cabin 
door. He silently approached and looked over the boulder. 
His eyes at first dwelt only on the maiden with an expres- 
sion of the deepest affection ; then they fell on the page she 
was reading, and he saw that the book was the Bible. 

He became very pale, and gave the little volume almost a 
scowl of hate. Instead of announcing his presence in some 
playful manner, as he had intended, he went directly around 
the rock into her presence, with the aspect of one who, feel- 
ing that he must face a dreadful crisis, will do it at once ; 
but she, in the strong, sudden impulse of her heart, sprang 
into his arms, as if it had been her right. 

“ I thank you, my true, loyal Vera ; I was dreading a 
different reception,” he said, as if an infinite burden were 
lifted from his mind. 

But her fast-falling tears, and the manner in which she 
extricated herself from his embrace, disappointed the hope 
which her impulsive reception had raised, and he almost de- 
spaired, as she said, 

“ Come with me, Theron ; let our farewell be where no 
eye can see us save that of our pitying God.” 

“ Do not say ‘ our,’ ” he replied harshly. 

“ Yes, Theron, our God, though you may not believe 
Him now. I have found light that is unmistakable.” 

“ Where have you found it ?” 

“ In this Bible.” 

“Curses ” 

She put her hand to his lips. 

“ O Vera ! this is worse than the bitterness of death. 
Why did you not let me die in Fort Clinton ?” 

“ Theron, don’t break my heart.” 

“ Is it nothing that you are breaking mine ?” 

“ God pity us both,” she sobbed, burying her face in 
her hands. 


THE PARTING. 


365 

They had now reached the spot on the hill-side which had 
been their favorite trysting place and the scene of strong 
temptation, conflict, and victory. He seated her on a rock ; 
but, instead of being his old gentle self, he seemed to have 
become a man of stone. For some little time her emotion 
was so great that she could not speak ; he would not At 
last, she asked brokenly, 

“ Theron, do you doubt my love?'" 

“You listen to old bigots rather than to me.'" 

“ Is Geneial Washington a bigot ?'" 

He was silent a moment, then said, “ He has not thought 
on these things. He simply accepts what he is too indiffer- 
ent to question.'" 

“ But he told me that he thought very deeply on these 
subjects."" 

“ He told you ! Vera, you are talking wildly. Can it 
be that you have brooded so long over these wretched su- 
perstitions that your mind is becoming unsettled ?'" 

“ No, Theron ; my mind never was so clear before. 
Only my heart is faint and pierced with sorrow because we 
must part. Look at the fly-leaf of this Bible." 

He read, in the clear, unmistakable hand that he well 
knew, the name “ George Washington.'' 

“ He gave it to me himself,'" continued Vera. 

“ Am I dreaming.?'" muttered Saville, in a low troubled 
tone. 

“ Theron,"" said Vera, laying her hand appealingly on 
his shoulder, “ have pity ! be patient with me, and I will 
tell you all. You can never know what this effort is costing 
me. Going after you to Fort Clinton was nothing in com- 
parison. You caused my faith to waver by your strong argu- 
ment that all the practical help I ever had was human help 
— human only. I have had human help again ; but I have 
come to see that God helps us and speaks to us through 


366 


JVEA/^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


creatuies like ourselves. Even you will be inclined to ad- 
mit that the fact that I have received personal counsel from 
General Washington is so strange as to be more than chance, 
and yet it is true/' And she told him how it happened. 

“ In asking his counsel I do not seek to know whether 
)ou mentioned my name,” said Saville gloomily ; “ for I 
have not sought to tempt you to evil.” 

“ Believe me, Theron, I never gave him — nor shall I ever 
give any one— a hint or clue of that which is between our- 
selves and our God. The truth of the Bible was the only 
question on which I needed light. That settles all the 
others. Theron, it is true ! I know it, as I know I exist ! 
I am not wise enough to answer your arguments ; but I 
have come to that point in which I am not so sure of any- 
thing as that the Bible is true.” 

He buried his face in his hands, and fairly groaned in the 
agony of his disappointment. 

“Theron,” said Vera, with a burning blush, “you 
could not love such a woman as you have described your — 
your wife to be.” 

“ Why stab me with that word ?” he cried passionately. 

“ Suppose I should become like her.” 

“ Impossible.” 

“You do not understand a woman’s heart. You have 
learned to love me as a simple, childlike girl, innocent if ig- 
norant, gentle and loving, if not strong and wise. Could 
you love me if I became a reckless, passionate woman ? 
Pardon me that I speak so plainly, and, in this agony of 
parting, pass beyond maidenly reserve and delicacy. But, 
since we must part, I wish you to see the necessity. The- 
ron, you are too good a man to love what I would become 
if I should turn my back on my faith, my mother s dying 
words, and my God. You know that I have been brought 
lace to face with awful peril, and yet never have I so trem- 


THE PARTING. 


367 


bled at anything as I have at the dark abyss that seemed 
opening in my own soul. At one time, Theron, I was al- 
most ready to lose my soul for your sake,"' she continued 
in a low tone ; “ and were I sure now that I only would 
suffer, that my remediless loss would be your happiness, I 
should scarcely dare trust myself. But God in mercy has 
removed this temptation, and I have been shown that wrong 
on my part would eventually mean wretchedness on 3^ours. 
There, Theron, I have shown you all my heart, and I ap- 
peal to your own noble manhood to protect me. ” 

“ My manhood is gone. I am utterly crushed and 
broken. Since to you it is a crime to keep my ring, give 
it to me and let me go. I can endure the torment of my 
loss no longer."’ 

“ O Theron, Theron !” Vera sobbed. 

“ If there is no help for it, give me the ring, and let me 
go before I become mad.” 

Slowly and reluctantly she drew off the two rings, as if the 
effort were almost beyond her power. He snatched his 
from her, and ground it into the earth under his heel. 

She saw with terror that he was taking counsel of despair. 
Acting on an impulse to save him from himself, she again 
drew off her mother’s ring, and seizing his hand, she 
pressed it, with difficulty, on his little finger. 

Theron,” she said pleadingly, “ if it is wrong, I can- 
not help it ; but I love you with my whole heart. Wear 
this priceless relic — my dead mother’s wedding-ring — as to- 
ken of my pledge that, since I cannot marry you, I will 
never marry any one else. Let its faint gleam ever remind 
you that if you raise this hand against yourself, you strike 
me a more fatal blow.” 

In answer to this appeal, his dry, darkly suggestive eyes 
for the first time moistened, and grew somewhat gentle in 
their expression. 


368 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


“ Vera/" he said, pressing the ring to his lips, “ you are 
stronger and braver than I ; you have more than human 
fortitude. Though I scarcely know whether to thank you 
or not, I believe your words and gift have again saved my 
life. Your promise, of which this ring is the token, holds 
out a glimmer of hope, and without hope who can live ? I 
can trust myself here no longer.” 

He took her in his arms one brief moment, then dashed 
away. A little later the sound of his horse's feet echoed 
from the opposite hill-side, but died quickly in the distance. 

It was well for both that he did not see her weakness, her 
grief that was almost as despairing as his own, which fol- 
lowed his departure. 

At last she crept home in the dusk, repeating over and 
over again, as her only comfort, 

“ Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth 
them that fear Him.” 


SEEKING DEATH, 


369 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


SEEKING DEATH. 


YEAR had almost passed since the parting described 



in the previous chapter — a year of patient fidelity to 
duty on the part of Vera, a year that was clouded by the 
deepest melancholy and almost despair in the case of Saville. 
For a long time he had cherished faint hopes that her forti- 
tude might fail ; that his arguments, from being more fully 
dwelt upon, would have their weight ; and, chief of all, that 
her loneliness and love might overcome her resolution. 
While recognizing the truth that she was acting conscien- 
tiously and heroically, he still believed that the only obstacle 
in the way of their happiness was the tenacious hold of her 
old superstitions upon her mind. The fact that their mutual 
suffering seemed so unnecessary made him chafe all the 
more, and his mind and body were giving evidences of the 
bitterness of the long-continued ordeal. Perpetual gloom 
lowered upon his brow ; at times, fits of abstraction almost 
unfitted him for his duties, and* again he would be reckless 
and inclined to dissipation. 

To his old acquaintances, his wife’s conduct accounted 
for his manner and actions ; but Surgeon Jasper knew of 
the deeper wound, and was often tempted to inform Vera of 
the disastrous results of Saville’ s disappointment. Indeed, 
he would have done so had not the young man charged him, 
almost harshly, “ not to meddle.” 

At first Saville had found seme solace in sending Vera, by 


370 


NEAR TO NATURE^ S HEART. 


the hand of Tascar, such things as he thought might add to 
her comfort ; but she soon, in a brief letter, gently but firmly 
declined to receive his gifts, and entreated him to remember 
that they must accept their whole duty, and school their 
hearts into subm'ssion. 

But there was this radical difference between them : while 
her suffering was the keener, because of the sensitiveness and 
delicacy of her nature, she was finding increasing strength 
and calmness from the Divine help that is ever given in an- 
swer to prayer. 

He was unaided in his struggle, and, if he still believed 
that man was a law unto himself, he was learning by bitter 
experience that he is not sufficient in himself for life’s 
emergencies. He had at last reached that desperate condi- 
tion in which, though still restrained by Vera’s words and 
the ring she had given him from any directly suicidal act, 
he was only too ready to throw away his life by reckless ex- 
posure in the first battle that occurred. 

Vera learned of his growing despair and consequent dan- 
gerous moods in a rather peculiar way. In introducing 
Tascar to the secluded cabin, Saville had virtually provided 
for the household, for the boy proved the most ubiquitous, 
industrious personality that ever taxed earth, air, and water 
for the means of livelihood. He soon became as accurate a 
shot as Vera herself, and she had no more occasion to range 
the hills with her gun save as a pastime. His knowledge of 
the instincts and habits of game made escape from his cun- 
ningly prepared traps and snares very improbable. His 
good luck as a fisherman became almost unvarying, because 
he knew just when and where to go. He enlarged the gar- 
den which he had made the preceding year, and kept it 
green and flourishing by turning through it a brook that 
had its unfailing source deep in the mountains. He scoured 
the hills and valleys for wild fruits in their season, and these* 


SEEKING DEATH. 


371 


with the surplus of game, found a ready sale at the garrison 
of West Point. 

Vera had thoroughly adopted Saville’s plan of perfect 
openness, and would permit nothing that looked like guilty 
fear or desire for concealment. Thus, through her manage- 
ment and Tascar’s able seconding, the little cabin was be- 
coming a recognized base of supplies for several officers' 
messes ; and Saville had always been ready to buy every- 
thing that his quondam servant brought, whether he wanted 
it or not. 

In answer to her father’s questions concerning Saville’ s 
long continued absence, Vera had said briefly, 

“ Circumstances are such that Mr. Saville cannot marry 
me, and since he cannot, it is best for us both that his visits 
should cease. Ask me no further. Let it satisfy you that 
he has acted toward me like an honorable man, as he is, 
and that he is still a true friend on whom I can call should 
I need him.” 

The exile turned gloomily away, satisfied that Saville at 
last realized the folly of allying himself to the daughter of 
one whom he knew to be a criminal ; but from that time 
his remorseful pity and tenderness for Vera increased. 

Tascar’s success as a huckster finally led to his acquaint- 
ance with a redoubtable negro by the name of Pompey, for 
whom the boy soon conceived a strong friendship, and a 
boundless admiration. Pompey was ostensibly following a 
like calling ; but, in supplying the British garrison at Stony 
Point, he brought away shining coin for his fruits and vege- 
tables, instead of the depreciated Continental money which 
was paid chiefly at West Point. This fact alone gave the 
elder sable trader a marked pre-eminence. 

But one day Pompey took Tascar into the depth of the 
forest, and, with great mystery and solemnity informed him, 

‘‘You’ se a peart likely boy, and I’se ’bout to put you up 


372 


JVEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 


a peg higher. I’se a-gwine to let you inter a deep 'spir- 
acy.'' 

“ Where is dis deep hole, an’ how deep’ll I hab ter go 
in?” asked Tascar, in some trepidation from Pompey’s 
words and manner. 

“ What a chile you is !” said Pompey loftily. “ ’Tain’t 
a hole ; it’s a ’spiracy agin de Red>coats. Does you tink I 
goes down to de Britishers at Stony P’int to hawk berries? 
My mas’r, Capting Lamb, doesn’t need to sell berries ; I 
takes a heap mo’ inter de fort dan I carries in my basket.” 

“ What does you take?” asked Tascar, agape with curi- 
osity. 

” I takes dese two eyes. I takes dese two ears.” 

“ Well, you doesn’t sell ’em ?” 

“ What a chile you is ! I comes back wid my basket 
empty, but my head is chuck full, an’ I tells mas’r all I 
sees an’ hears, an’ he tells a ’Merican ossifer, an’ soon 
Gin’ral Washington hisself knows all / does.” And at this 
point Pompey assumed an air of such mysterious importance 
that Tascar was deeply awed. 

“ P’raps we' ll take dat ar British fort. We’re a-thinkin’ 
ob it,” continued Pompey, half in soliloquy. ” It ’pends 
werry largely on me. Now it isn’t ’cornin' dat a man in 
my ’sponsible ’sition should be out berryin’ all de time. 
I’se got to tink” (with a suggestive tap on his forehead); 
” an’ while Pse a prowidin’ sumfin’ dat you doesn’t know 
nuffin’ ’bout, an’ what is called strogedy, you can pick de 
berries an’ bring ’em to me, an’ I’ll gib you de shiners for 
’em. Your part ob de ’spiracy is to pick de berries an’ 
keep your mouf shut, an’ den some dark night you’ll hear 
more'n you eber did in de daytime.” 

Though Tascar’ s share in the dark conspiracy against the 
British garrison was rather humble, he was more than satis- 
fied, and was so elated with his secret and his importance 
that old Gula asked, 


SEEKING DEATH. 


373 


“ What’s de matter, chile ? ’Pears like you’se a-bustin’ 
wid sumfin’.’’ 

But Tascar, by a mighty effort, was able to keep his 
“ mouf shut. ” 

Vera also asked, “ How is it you get coin of late for the 
fruit?” 

“I gits it honest. Missy Vera,” was all that the sable 
sphinx would vouchsafe. 

But one July midnight he roused them all by his wild and 
excited cries. 

‘‘ Dar 1 dar !” he shouted, ” Pompey’s goin’ fur de 
Red-coats. I’se in de ’spiracy, an’ mus’ go to look arter 
it,” and he started southward, in spite of his mother’s ex- 
postulations. 

The heavy jar of a brief cannonade, and the faint reports 
of musketry, satisfied Vera and her father that a battle was 
in progress. To the maiden these sounds suggested danger 
to the one ever present in her thoughts, and, in the solemn 
night, they were peculiarly ominous and depressing. 

She soon learned how profoundly she had reason to dread 
such evidences of battle, for one evening, a few days after 
the capture of Stony Point, Tascar induced his great lu- 
minary, Pompey, to come and beam on the inmates of the 
cabin for an hour, and to relate the events of the assault, as 
far as he saw and imagined them. Tascar was peculiarly 
eager to bring about the recitation of this epic, not only that 
he might, as one of the ” ’spirators,” reflect a few rays of 
Pompey’s glory ; but also that his master might learn of an 
important American success, and that Vera might hear how 
strangely Saville had acted. He introduced his friend as the 
hero of the occasion, declaring excitedly, 

” Does you believe, Mas’r Brown, Pompey tuk our folks 
right into de fort, an’ cotched ’bout a million Red-coats ?” 

” Well,” began Pompey, with a patronizing glance at Tas- 


374 


NEAR TO NATURE'S NEART. 


car, “ I don’t’spcse derewas quite so many as dat, an’ den 
you mus’ know, Mas’r Brown, dat I had 'siderable help. 
From what dis yer peart boy hab told me, you’se’ud like to 
know how ’tvvas done.” 

^ “ We would indeed,” said Vera, welcoming anything 

that beguiled her sad thoughts for an hour. Tascar had 
not told her that Pompey had aught to relate of Saville, for 
he was magnanimous enough to detract in no respect from 
the force and freshness of his friend’s narration. He had 
hinted to Pompey that Mas’r Brown would be greatly pleased 
to hear any tidings of Saville ; but, with a little diplomacy 
of his own, said nothing of Vera’s interest. He had not 
been a member of a “ ’spiracy” for nothing, and could 
keep other secrets than those of Pompey to himself. 

“ Well, you see, Mas’r an’ Missy Brown,” Pompey con- 
tinued, assuming a histrionic air and attitude, ” it all begin 
in a ’spiracy, an’ I was de big ’spirator. Dis )er chile was 
in de 'spiracy too” (and he laid a patronizing hand on Tas- 
car’ s head), “ an’ his part was to pick de berries an’ keep 
his mouf shut. He’s a peart boy, an’ a good ’spirator.” 

Tascar, in the exuberance of his delight at such high 
praise, stood on his head a moment, and then righted him- 
self again in the attitude of an intensely eager listener. 

Pompey complacently waited till the boy was through with 
his demonstration, as an orator or actor might yield a mo- 
ment to an outburst of applause, and then proceeded : 

“ De ’spiracy rested on two tings : De British ossifers like 
strawberries, an’ my mas’r an’ Gin’ral Washington liked ter 
know what de Red-coats was up ter. I” (with an air of 
conscious power) “ was able to guv bof parties what dey 
wanted. I tuck de berries inter de fort, an’ 1 brought back 
eberyting I seed an’ heerd, an’ often my head was fuller 
when I come out dan my basket when I went in. Well, ter 
git in an’ out 1 had ter hab what dey call a countysign — a 


SEEKING DEATH. 


375 


sort ob sayin^ or word dat is like a key dat unlocks de do’. 
It’s a mighty quar ting, de countysign is ; it jes’ makes 
’em big grannydeers like suckin’ lambs, when, if youhabn't 
any countysign, dey’dspit you on de p’int obdare bayonets. 

“ Well, I’se had allers carried de berries tode Red- coats in 
de daytime ; but arter a while de ’spiracy got deeper, and 
mas’r tole me dat Gin’ral Washington wanted ter see if he 
couldn’t tuck de fort some dark night. So I put on a long 
face de nex’ time I went, and said, 

' ‘ ‘ Can’t git here no mo’ in daylight. Hoein’ corn time’s 
come ; mas’r can’t spare me and dey said, ‘ Mus’ hah 
our berries. You come ebenin’s, and we’ll let you in and 
out; for you’ se an iiinercent darkey, and wouldn’t do no 
more harm dan a mule.’ I said, ‘ Yes, mas’rs, I’se jes’ as 
innercent as a mule.’ An’ I tole de truf ; for you know, 
Mas’r Brown, you neber can tell when a mule is a-gwine to 
kick up. 

“ Well, I tuck de berries in at night, an’ all went smooth 
as ile a few days, aii’ de countysign let me in an’ out in de 
dark jes’ as well as in de light. On de fourteenth ob de 
month my mas’r said, ‘ Pompey, you’se got a long head. 
We don’t want a dorg nowhar near Stony P’int, kase dey 
might baik de wrong time, you know. Can you fix ’em so 
dey won’t bark to-morrow night?’ an’ den he wink one eye 
jes’ dis way. 

“ Den I knew de ’spiracy was a-gittin’ deeper yit, an’ 
takin’ in de dorgs. Wheneber dey wanted some strogedy 
dey allers come to me, an’ dey knowed dat de only way dey 
could eber git aroun’ dem ar dorgs was by strogedy. I tink 
po’ful strong a few minutes, an’ den I said, ‘ Mas’r Lamb, 
jes’ leave dem dorgs tome. If any ob ’em barks to-morrow 
night, den dorgs hab ghosts jes’ as much as oder folks ’ 
Dat night I tuck down de berries in one basket an’ sumfin’ 
for de dorgs in anoder. Whar I knowed people lived dat 


376 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 


thought mo' ob dare dorgs dan ob de country I jes’ drap- 
ped a chunk ob seasoned meat, an' watched till I seed it 
tucked away whar it would be werry quietin’. To de true- 
blue Whigs I says, * Gin’ral Washington doesn't want no 
dorgs barkin' ter-morrow night.' Den I winked jes' as 
mas’r did an' dat was enuff. 

“ I’se been 'tickler in 'latin' dese parts, kase here's whar 
de strogedy comes in, an' it all 'pended on strogedy. Any- 
body kin fight an’ git knocked on de head, but in dis case 
eberybody, even Gin'ral Washington, had to wait till I'd 
done up de strogedy. 

“ Well, de fifteenth come, an' it was a big day an' a big- 
ger night. You heerd de guns, but dare had ter be a po'ful 
lot ob strogedy afore dey was fired, an’ all de great gin'rals 
an' kunnels an’ captings foun’ dat dey couldn’t git on wid- 
out Pompey. Gin'ral Wayne, de one dey call ‘ Mad An- 
terny,' was at de head ob it all, an' he 'rived sumfin’ less 
dan two mile below de P’int arter dark, an’ he had quite a 
lot ob Continentals wid him, not so wery many, dough, for 
he was 'pendin' on my strogedy more'n hard fightin’. 

“ Gin’ral Wayne stopped his men out ob sight, an' was 
jes' a-startin’ wid a lot ob his big ossifers to take a squint 
at de Britishers an’ de kaseway leadin' to de fort, when we 
heerd a hos cornin' as if de debbil was arter him, an' some 
'un dashed up like mad. ‘Why, Saville,' said Gin’ral 
Wayne, ‘ how in de name ob wonder did you git here ?’ 

‘ I jes’ heerd what was on foot, an’ I stole away to jine 
de 'spedition as a wolunteer. ’ ‘ Kunnel De Fleury says 

you’re mo’ reckless dan I is,’ said de gin’ral, ‘ an’ it won't 
do ter hab too many hot heads in dis ticklish bizness ; so I’ll 
put you in charge ob de kunnel, and you must keep back 
and 'bey orders.’ ‘ I promise, gin’ral, to keep back,’ said 
de one dey call Saville, ‘till you say de fust man dat gits to de 
center ob de fort is de best man,’ an’ den dey let him go." 


SEEKING DEATH. 


377 


Vera had been listening with a half smile upon her face, 
for she could not help being amused by the negro's droll 
manner and boundless egotism ; but, at the mention of Sa- 
ville’s name, she became deathly pale and very faint ; by 
great effort, however, she controlled herself sufficiently not 
to interrupt the narrative. 

“ Now, you mus’ know, Mas’r Brown, dat de Britishers 
was a little careless, kase dey said de 'sition ob de fort was 
so po'ful strong dat de rebs couldn’t tuck it; an’ no mo’ 
dey couldn’t, widout strogedy, an’ dat was de reason dey 
wanted me all de lime. De fort is on a great, high, rocky 
hill, an’ de water ob de ribber comes all aroun’ in front ob 
it, an’ to’rd de land dere’s wide, nasty mash, whar de mud 
is deeper nor dewater, an’ you'd go down inter it kerchunk ! 
right ober yer head. Stony P’int is a kind ob island, an’ 
de only way to git dare is by a long, narrow kase way, whar 
my ole missus, wid a broomstick, could keep back a reg’- 
ment. We could only git across dat ar place by strogedy, 
an’ so dey all was a ’pendin’ on me. 

“ Well, Gin’ral Wayne an’ Kunnel De Fleury, an’ him 
dey call Capting Saville, look all aroun’ as near as dey 
an’ could not be seen, an’ all was still. De dorgs was 
wery quiet, an’ dey seed dat I had fixed eberyting jes’ 
right. 

“ About de middle ob de night all de sogers started, an’ 
I goes on ahead wid de gin’ral an’ all de big men, kase I 
had de countysign, an’ was to keep on doin’ de ’portant 
part of the strogedy. I had to Irab de help now ob two 
Oder ’spirators ; so dey had two big men fixed up like ole 
farmers, an’ dey was to go along wid me. When de sogers 
got near de fort, de gin’ral stopped dem agin, an’ he sent me 
an’ de ole farmers on ahead, while he an’ some ossifers follered 
slow like. Capting Saville wanted to go wid me, but de 
gin’ral called him back. 


378 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


“ Well, I had my basket ob berries jes’ de same as eber 
— Tascar here pick ’em fer me — an’ de ole farmers was each 
a-carryin’ a sheep ; an’ so we trudged along up to de fust 
sentinel, as innercent as mules, sure ’nuff. De man knowed 
me, an’ had let me by often afore. So I steps up to him 
to guv de countysign, which was ‘ De fort is our own,’ an’ 
de ole farmers follered close on my heels. While I was 
a- whisperin’ de countysign an’ a-talkin’, dey was to carry 
out de rest ob de strogedy. 

“ ‘ De fort’s our own,’ says I to de Britisher. ‘ Correct, 
hand hit’ll stay hour hown,’ says de Red-coat. ‘ You 
doesn’t tink I’m a-gwine to take it away in my basket, ter- 
night, does yer ?’ ‘ What hab you hin de basket ?’ says 

he. ‘ Help yerself,’ says I, an’ while he was a-fumblin’ 
about de basket, de two old farmers jump on him an’ tuck 
away his muskit an’ stopped his mouf so tight he couldn’t 
git no berries in nor no sound out. Down by de kaseway 
dere was anoder sent’nel, but we come de strogedy on him, 
de same way. 

“ But de tide was so high dat even de kaseway was kivered 
wid water, an’ strogedy couldn’t help dat, an’ so dey all had 
ter wait till de tide lowered. But Capting Saville wouldn’t 
wait, and was a-gwine to feel his way ober through de water 
when de gin’ral call him back agin. Po’ful brave man, 
dat Capting Saville, but no good at strogedy. 

‘ ‘ At last we all got ober, sabe a big lot ob men dat was 
to stay on dis side for a resarve, dey said. De gin’ral tole 
me dat I needn’t go no furder ; but I telled him dat I’d 
done my part, an ’bout de same as guv him de fort, and 
now I’se was a-gwine along wid him and see how he did his 
part. He larfed and says, * Pompey, p’raps you is de big- 
gest gen’ral ob de two.’ 

“ Well, he d’wldes de sogers into two big parties, and he 
tucks one and Kunnel De Fleury de oder, and he sent ahead 


SEEKING DEATH, 


379 


ob each party an ossiferwid twenty men, who was to cut away 
what dey call de 'batis, or a strong, scragly fence ob tree- 
tops, all sharpened and stuck in front ob de fort. Dare 
was two thick rows ob dese, an’ I pitied dem po’ fellers who 
had ter go ter wood-choppin’, while de Red-coats was a-cut- 
tin’ dem up. Dey called dese twenty men ahead ob each 
party de ‘ ’lorn hope.’ Who should jine one ob dese ’lorn 
hopes but Capting Saville. ‘ Come back,’ says Kunnel De 
Fleury ; ‘ Come back,’ says Gin’ral Wayne ; ‘ you’se no 
bizness dar.’ ‘ I’ll ’beyde lieutenant in command, and will 
disconsortno un, ’ says Saville, an’ away he goes up de steep 
hill wid de ’lorn hope. 

“ I wanted ter see it out ; but I wasn’t ’sessed, like Cap- 
ting Saville, ter get knocked on de head ; so 1 crep around 
one side, away from bof de parties, kase I knowed de Red- 
coats wouldn’t fire whar no one in ’tickler was cornin’ agin’ 
’em, an’ I could see by de flashes how tings was goin’. 
Gittin’ ’round in a safe place, while oders was bein’ cracked 
on de head, was de difference between havin’ strogedy an’ 
not havin’ strogedy.” 

“But Captain Saville,” cried Vera, seizing his arm ; 
” what became of him ?” 

The sharp interruption, and Vera’s bloodless, agonized 
face, checked Pompey’s historic flow of thought, and sug- 
gested a new and quite distinct idea to him. 

“Law sakes, missy,” he began, ‘‘I didn’t know you 
cared in ’tickler ’bout him. Tascar, you orter — ” 

‘‘ Speak, man !” she said, with an importunity that was 
almost fierce. ” Was Captain Saville wounded.? was he — 
O God ! I cannot utter that word !” 

” Missy Vera, Capting Saville’s safe at West Point. I 
seed him yesterday. He wasn’t hurt, dough it ’pears like 
as if he tried to be,” said Tascar hastily. 

” Ah ! thank God ! another awful danj^er is past. Please 


380 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART, 


hasten your story, for I cannot bear to hear of these awful 
scenes. ’ ’ 

“ I’se near through, missy, for what happened arter whar 
I lef’ off all seemed to be in a minute. Our folks went up 
de hill as still like as if dey was ghosts. On a sudden dey 
come on de Red coats, an’ dey fired on our men, but no 
flashes came from our side. I was tole dat dare wasn’t a 
loaded musket ’mong de ’Mericans, an’ I links it was so ; 
for dey jes’ put dere bay’nets in front an’ run for’ud like 
mad. In a minute de ’lorn hope nex’ me was cuttin’ away 
de ’batis, or big, ugly fence. De place dat was so still as if 
dey was all sleepin’ became full of drefful sounds. De 
drums beat de long roll, de ossifers was a shoutin’ ‘To 
arms ! to arms !’ de cannons began to beller, and dev filled 
dem wid grape-shot, an’ all de Britishers was a-firin’ dare 
muskets fas’ as dey could load. It ’peared to me dat ebery 
un ob our folks would be killed twice ober. A minute later 
I seed Capting Saville, by de light ob a big flash, jump on 
an’ ober de ’batis, a-cuttin’ an’ a-slashin* wid his sword. 
Away went a crowd ob our sogers arter him. In less time 
dan I kin tell you our two parties come togedder, kerslap, 
right in de middle ob de fort. Dey hauled down de flag ; 
dey stuck ebery ’un dat was oncivil — Well, Mas’r Brown, 
ter make a long story short, dey jes’ picked up, on de p’ints 
ob dare bay’nets, de fort dat I had already got for ’em by 
my strogedy. But, Missy Vera, if Capting Saville is a friend 
ob your’n, you orter look arter him, kase he can’t do what 
he did dat ar night twice, strogedy or no strogedy. ’ ’ 

Vera fled to her room. 

Her father looked after her with an expression of deep 
commiseration, and having dismissed Pompey with a few 
words of thanks, turned on his heel, and strode away into 
the forest, muttering, 

“ The curse resting on me will crush her also, and seems 


SEEKING DEA'TH. 


381 

to be falling on Saville. His pride will not permit him to 
marry the daughter of such a wretch as I am, and yet his 
thwarted love makes life a burden that he would gladly be 
rid of. Oh 1 the malign power of one evil deed 1 Who 
can tell when and where its deadly influence will cease ? I 
have destroyed myself ; I am destroying Vera and Saville ; 
my crime dug poor Esther’s early grave. How many others 
shall I blight before the curse dies out? Would to God I 
had never been born 1” 

Note. — A shrewd negro slave, by the name of Pompey, obtained 
the countersign, and guided the American forces to the causeway 
leading to Stony Point, in the manner described in the foregoing 
chapter. He belonged to Captain Lamb, a staunch Whig who re- 
sided in the neighborhood, 


382 


JV£A/i TO NATURE'S HEART 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


SEEKING LIFE. 


N reaching the seclusion of her own little closet, Vera 



did not give way to helpless grief. She recognized 
the necessity of prompt action. Saville must again feel her 
strong yet gentle grasp, or he might be lost to her and to 
himself. Another battle would soon occur, and another op- 
portunity for the carrying out of his dreadful purpose. He 
must be shown at once that such reckless exposure was a 
virtual violation of his promise of which her mother’s ring 
was the token. She resolved to write to him and appeal to 
all the noble, generous traits which she knew he possessed, 
and to chide him for the unmanly weakness which he was 
now displaying. She even determined to risk the loss of 
her dearest treasure, Washington’s Bible, in the hope that 
he would read it, and be led by its teachings to doubt the 
skepticism which had so little power to sustain and comfort. 
Thus, she was a sleepless watcher through the night, often 
writing earnestly and rapidly, and again thinking long and 
deeply between the sentences of the following letter : 

“ Theron, my more than brother, have I lost my influ- 
ence over you ? The fear that I have adds greatly to a bur- 
den that is already too heavy. Your influence over me loses 
none of its power. It would be hard for me to say when 
the thought of you is absent from my mind. The greatest 


SEEKING LIFE. 


383 


sacrifice you could ask would be a joy did not conscience 
forbid. Theron, I am trying very hard to do right. There 
are many days in which I can only cling desperately to God’s 
hand ; but He has sustained me in a manner so wonderful 
that my confidence in Him, not myself, is continually in- 
creasing. He is very gentle and patient with me also, for 
He knows I am a ‘ bruised reed.’ 

‘ ‘ But, Theron, you are making my burden heavier than 
I can bear, even with God’s compassionate help. You 
know well that in my shadowed life I have become acquaint- 
ed with suffering, and yet never before have I endured such 
agony as pierced my heart to-day. You are the cause. 
Theron, in every unordered, uncalled-for, reckless step you 
took, in the attack on Stony Point, you trod upon my heart. 
When you are called upon to face danger by just authority, 
do your duty, and your whole duty, as I am asking God to 
help me do mine, in the face of a temptation that assails me 
relentlessly and almost continuously. I say this much, 
though well aware that if you receive wounds, I shall be 
more sorely wounded, and that if you are killed, it will be 
worse than death to me. But, did duty compel you to take 
part in that desperate midnight assault ? Was it love of 
country that thrust you forward beyond the bravest who were 
acting under orders? When I pained and disappointed 
you, I did so under a compulsion the strongest and most 
sacred that the human soul can recognize. Was your mo- 
tive in seeking death, that awful night, noble and sacred ? 
Theron, it was the first cowardly act I ever knew you to 
commit, and it was an act so cruel as to be utterly unlike 
you. It was an unmanly effort to escape from a burder^ 
which I, in case you had accomplished your puypo§e, yv^ould 
have had to bear alone, and which was nrade iq|initely greatef 
by your act Granting that your tjelief i§ true, and tha^ 
death is dreamless sleep, car; you lop^ for a rest whieh 


3^4 


NEAR TO NATURES HEART, 


means unspeakable agony for me ? I do not say it boast- 
ingly, but from the depths of my heart, I could welcome 
pain, loss, disaster, anything save sin, which would bring 
you rest. You should be stronger and braver than I. Why 
are you not } Theron, there must be something wrong in 
your philosophy wheli a man naturally as noble and good 
as you are sinks, fails, and is overborne ; and if your phi- 
losophy cannot sustain one peculiarly strong and favored 
like yourself, of what use would it be to average humanity ? 
How utterly it would fail the weak and tempted ! But my 
faith in God sustains even me in as sore a stress, I think, as 
ever a woman was called to endure. It sustained my dear 
mother, and you know how sad her lot was in so many re- 
spects. If your creed cannot make a strong, noble man 
like yourself brave and patient, it is so poor that I am sure 
it is unfounded. 

“ Theron, I know you honestly think you are right, but 
are you sure you have full reason to think so. Pardon me 
if I, in love and sympathy, touch for a moment on your 
past experience. You once believed that the woman who 
is your wife was worthy of your affection. You assumed 
that she was, and acted honestly and naturally in view of 
your belief. If you had studied her character carefully and 
patiently, you would have found that you were mistaken. 
Forgive me for saying it, Theron ; but I cannot help think- 
ing that any view, creed, or philosophy which can permit you 
to make a cowardly flight from life’s burden, from the duties 
you owe to your mother and country, is equally unworthy 
of respect. We are now, as it were, meeting the same cruel 
misfortune side by side. Will you run away and leave me 
to suffer it all alone ? 

“ I have a favor to ask. Your response will show whether 
I have still any influence over you, and whether you will do 
a comparatively little thing for one who will do for you 


SEEKING LIFE. 


385 


everything in her power save that which is wrong. I listened 
patiently to all your arguments, and I tried very hard to be- 
lieve them. Oh I how I wished that I could think as you 
did ; but I had known and seen the power of God's living 
truth, and it was impossible. Will you in fairness honestly 
consider the grounds of my faith ? As a proof of my all- 
absorbing interest in you, I send the dearest thing I have, 
Washington’s Bible, with the one request that you read it 
through, patiently and thoughtfully, and that you dwell 
especially on the New Testament. I suppose that there are 
wise men who could argue with you and tell you something 
about the Bible, how it was written, and why people think 
it is God’s Word ; biit I do not ask you to seek them. I 
only ask that you sit down by yourself, and, putting aside all 
prejudice, that you read this Bible with the candor and sin- 
cerity which have always been among your noblest traits. 
I feel sure the book will make its own impression, and con- 
tain all the arguments that are needed. I leave the issue 
with God, to whom I pray in your behalf more often than 
in my own. I hope my pencilings here and there will not 
mar the pages for you. 

“ Theron, is my mother’s ring still on your finger? It 
means now all that it did when I placed it there. But you 
made a promise then as truly as I did. Do not keep its let- 
ter but break its spirit. Farewell. 

“Vera.” 

Early the next morning she summoned Tascar, and 
giving him the letter and package containing the book, 
said, with a decision which he could not fail to under- 
stand, 

“ Find Mr. Saville, and give him these as soon as possi- 
ble. Mark my words, Tascar, find him. Go to him wher- 
ever he is, and give this letter and book into his own hands ; 


386 JVEA/^ TO STATUTE’S HEART 

remember, his own hands. There is money. If need be, 
travel days and weeks till you find him. I must take no 
risks in this matter. Wait for his answer.’" 

Having done her part, Vera was able, more calmly and 
trustingly, to leave the result in God’s hands. 

Tascar reached West Point at about noon, and found Sa- 
ville in his quarters. His gloomy face lighted up as he saw 
the boy. 

“ Missy Vera tole me to give you dese, an’ wait for an 
answer. ’ ’ 

Saville eagerly took the missive and package, and shut- 
ting himself up in a small room back of the main one, 
opened the letter with a hand that now trembled as it never 
had in the shock of battle. He soon reappeared with a 
note in his hand, and said to Tascar, wno had zealously 
complied with the request that he should eat the untasted 
dinner on the table, 

“ Take this to your mistress, and come to me again in a 
week, for I shall have something to send to her.” 

‘‘Did you find him?” asked Vera, surprised at his 
speedy return. 

“ Yes, Missy Vera, an’ here is w^hat he guv me.” 

Vera hastened to her room, tore open the note, and, with 
tears of joy, read as follows : 

“ My loyal Vera, I have read your letter, and am over- 
whelmed with shame and self-contempt. How strong you 
are ! How weak I have been ! If I am not a man after 
this, let even my memory perish. I now promise you to 
keep the spirit of my pledge. If anything happens to me, 
it will be in the performance of what you even would es- 
teem — duty. And, Vera, I will even read the book which 
has broken my heart and blighted my life, in separating 
you from me. I cannot now trust myself to say anything 


SEEKING LIFE, 387 

more. You are as much above and beyond me as your 
fancied heaven is above the earth. 

“ Yours, to command henceforth, 

* ‘ ‘ Saville. ' ’ 

The long, dark night was passing, and Vera saw in these 
few words the faint dawning of hope. 

Did her pencilings mar the pages of the little Bible ? Sa- 
ville, on his return to his quarters that evening, turned at 
first only to such pages, and to the words indicated, which 
were thus made to seem as if spoken directly to him by the 
maiden. 

One text struck him with peculiar force, in the circum- 
stances. It was heavily marked, and Vera had written under 
it, “ May not this be true?” It was, ‘‘There is a way 
which seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the 
ways of death.” 

‘‘ Is it possible that I am mistaken ?” he asked himself 
for the first time. ‘ ‘ At any rate, I shall be more bigoted 
than the bigots themselves if I do not accede to Vera’s re- 
quest, and give her side a careful, unprejudiced hear- 
ing.” 

Saville was too honest a man to bestow on Washington’s 
Bible a careless, hasty perusal ; and he was too large na- 
tured and fair to read it with his mind steeled against its 
truth by dislike, contempt, or the pride of preconceived 
opinion. It was his sincere intention to be receptive, judi- 
cial, and let the book speak for itself, according to its capa^ 
bility. 

Some things in Vera’s letter strongly tended to promote a 
condition of mind favorable to the reception of the truth. 
Her reference to the blindness which he had shown, at first, 
to the character of his wife, made him wince, but the effect 
was wholesome. He certainly had been mistaken then in 


388 


JVEAA^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 


a matter of vital importance, and how disastrous had been 
the consequences ! 

“ If Vera is right, and this book is true ; if I am mistaken 
again,” bethought, “the evil will be" without remedy. If 
death is not a dreamless sleep, but rather an eternal, wak- 
ing consciousness of all that one has lost ; if there is the 
faintest possibility of this, I had better consider it at 
once.” 

He moreover felt that he had justified Vera’s contempt for 
his philosophy. What had it done for him, save to prompt 
to unmanly, cowardly action ? Her faith, in contrast, had 
sustained her in patient, heroic endurance. He was hum- 
bled, and truth is ever ready to be the guest of humility. 

It does not come within the scope of this story to follow 
closely his mental changes during the days and weeks that 
followed. It is sufficient to say that the grasp of the Divine 
mind upon his grew continually more masterful and firm. 
The Bible, as Vera said, did prove itself, as it ever does to 
the candid reader ; as it ever does to those who are not ab- 
sorbed in their own little ’isms, or befogged by their own 
pet theories, or intrenched in opinions already formed. Few 
of the Bible’s opponents have ever followed the example of 
Saville, for he permitted the book to do all it could with 
him. 

“ My reason,” he often resolved, “ shall be like a judge 
upon the bench, and neither pride, prejudice, my wishes, 
nor an unfair hearing, shall bribe or dispose it to a false de- 
cision.” 

As he read and carefully re-read the book, and at last was 
able to grasp, to some extent, its scope and meaning ; as he 
discovered its wonderful unity in the ’seeming diversity ; as 
he saw that the verbal husk in the early parts of the Old 
Testament had a kernel of rich, spiritual meaning, and that 
tlA2 New Testament clearly taught a philosophy too lofty for 


SEEKING LIFE. 


389 


a merely human origin, he gradually became convinced that 
there was a God, and that the Bible was His guiding word 
to His earthly children. The “ Man of Sorrows” fascinated 
him with irresistible power, and he followed Him in all His 
patient journeying through Palestine, wondering, fearing, 
hoping, but unhealed. 

With the conviction of the Bible’s truth, a distress of 
mind, such as he had never known before, began to develop 
itself. How must the all-powerful and holy God regard him, 
who had so arrogantly, and with so little proof and reason, 
assumed that His Word was a myth, and Himself a fiction 
of the superstitious ? And when he thought how he had 
tempted Vera, and caused her to waver in her faith, he was 
ready to despair. 

“What have I learned from the Bible.?” he exclaimed 
one day, in agony, ” save that I am justly and irretrievably 
lost. I now know what poor, tempted Vera meant when 
she trembled at the words, ‘ A certain fearful looking for of 
judgment.’ ” 

As early as possible, after receiving the Bible Vera had 
sent him, Saville had procured another, which he sent out 
to her by Tascar, as he had promised. While Vera welcomed 
this gift as a proof that he was relenting in his bitter hostib 
ity to the book, she was left in ignorance of the radical 
changes taking place in his mind. Saville did not wish to 
commit himself until fully convinced. But when, after in- 
tellectual conviction, he commenced drawing practical in- 
ferences from its truth, and saw the fate which threatened 
him ; when his awakened and instructed conscience revealed 
to him that the penalty of sin is not arbitrary and externally 
imposed, but inevitable and natural, in the one sinning, 
from the very law and principle of creation ; the man was 
overwhelmed with rational fear. The dark question, which 
all the penances of the Romish Church, and the cruelties of 


390 


//EAI? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


superstition, have vainly tried to answer, rose for his per- 
sonal solution. How shall I be rid of my sin ? 

Only the flippant and shallow-minded make light of this 
question, and they but for a brief time. The student of 
history and humanity knows that it has been the burden of 
the heart among all races and in every age ; and that to-day 
men are inflicting upon themselves inconceivable suffering in 
the vain hope of answering it. 

Saville had learned from the Bible only part of the truth, 
lie saw what evil was and what it involved ; but he had not 
yet discovered the remedy, which is usually overlooked at 
first from its very simplicity. 

His despairing self-condemnation became so great that he 
determined to write to Vera, and see if she could not give 
him some clue of hope. So, one day several weeks after 
the time he had commenced reading the Bible, at her re- 
quest, he wrote the following brief letter, knowing that 
he would soon have an opportunity of sending it out to 
the cabin by Tascar, who was often down to the garri- 
son. 

“ My faithful Vera, I fear the gift of the Bible, which cost 
you so much to send, but which I tried to make good by 
sending another, has been but of little service to me. Will 
you be full of joy when I tell you that I believe it to be the 
true Word of the all-powerful God ? Can you be, when 
you remember the doom which this Bible pronounces on 
me who so long scoffed at it, and (what is far worse to me) 
who tempted you ? I am no longer in the darkness of un- 
belief, but stand in the searching, consuming light of God’s 
truth, trembling at the thought that I have lost myself — that 
I have lost you — forever. Is there no remedy ? In my de- 
spair I turn to you, the one I have wronged most. 

“ Saville.” 


SEEKING LIFE, 39 1 

“ Mas’r Saville looked sick,” said Tascar, as he gave the 
letter to Vera, one evening. 

In a few moments Vera came to the cabin door again and 
summoned Tascar. The boy thought the expression of 
her face indicated that something unusual would be required, 
and he was prepared for the request. 

“ Tascar, will you go to West Point for me again to- 
night ?” 

“Yes, Missy Vera, if it’s anyting ’tickler.” 

“ Give that letter to Mr. Saville, and you won’t be sorry 
for the trouble it costs you. I will reward you.” 

Late in the evening, Saville received a missive which con- 
tained only these words ; 

“ Theron, I wish to see you. Come to the place where 
we parted on the hill-side, the first evening your duties will 
permit. , Vera.” 

He briefly wrote in reply, “ I will come to-morrow even- 
ing. How faithful you are !” 

He put a broad piece of gold in the wearied messenger’s 
hand, and said, 

“ Keep that yourself, Tascar.” 

It was with feelings difficult to be described that Saville 
looked down into the wild, secluded glen once more. Over 
a year had passed since he had seen it, or its inmates. The 
mellow autumn sunlight shimmered through the trees and 
upon the rocks, softening the rugged wildness of the scene. 
But in its dreariest wintry garb it would be the one attractive 
spot of earth to him. 

“ Will Vera be much changed ?” he had asked himself 
again and again. Ages seemed to have passed since he had 
seen her. 

He could not surprise her now. She was waiting for him. 


392 


JV£AJ? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


with her hand upon her side, as was her custom when deep 
feeling caused her heart to flutter too strongly. To one 
watching them from a little distance their meeting would 
have appeared very quiet and undemonstrative ; but to each 
other, trembling hands and moistened eyes revealed the 
depths of feeling in reserve. 

“ You are pale and thin, Theron,"’ said Vera, her tears 
gathering visibly. 

“ These are the least of my troubles,” he replied, half 
smiling. “1 dreaded lest you had become shadowy and 
spirit-like under the discipline of sorrow. Since I have come 
to believe there is a heaven, I have been constantly wonder- 
ing why you are not taken there at once. But I am inclined 
to think that you have become womanly during this long 
year, rather than angelic. ’ " 

“ I am glad to hear you say so,” she answered, trying to 
smile also ; “for the reason that I am a woman, if for no 
other. I have no desire to be anything else at present.” 

” Vera,” he could not forbear saying, ” I did not know 
that faith and sorrow could make a human face so beauti- 
ful.” 

She could not have been a woman did not a smile of pleas- 
ure illumine her face now. Almost instantly it was fol- 
lowed by an expression of deep pain, and she turned away 
for a moment. 

He understood her ; she could not drink at the ever-full 
fountain of his love and admiration, though the waters were 
so sweet. 

But when she turned to him again, there was no prudish 
restraint in her manner. She took his hand as a sister might 
do, and said, 

” Theron, I want to help you. You as yet only believe 
the poorest and most meagre part of God’s truth.” 

He looked at her with some surprise, and said. 


SEEKING LIFE. 


393 


“ Why, Vera, I now believe the Bible as it reads substan- 
tially. I admit that there is much that I do not understand, 
and cannot reconcile. It grows clearer, however, as I study 
it. The difficulty in understanding it all is an argument in 
its favor. It’s a revelation of an infinite mind ; mine is 
finite. If I could grasp the whole book, I should say at 
once, ‘ It is the work of human intellects like my own.’ ” 

“ The simple parts are those which you do not believe. 
You do not understand the parts that mother taught me 
when I was a little child.” 

” Then teach me as if I were a child.” 

“ How strange that you should say that ! It’s a good 
omen. Read those words. ” And she pointed out the fol- 
lowing text in the Bible he had given her : 

“ Verily I say unto you, whosoever shall not receive the 
Kingdom of God as a little child shall in no wise enter 
therein.” 

” We must come to the point, Theron, of believing what 
our Heavenly Father says, with the trust of a little child.” 

“ But what does the Bible say of those who offend, or 
cause one of God’s little ones to offend? How sorely I 
tempted you, Vera,” and he covered his face with his hands. 

” But you have no wish to make me offend now ?” 

” No. Whatever becomes of me, I shall thank God that 
He preserved you.” 

‘ ‘ Can you not see what a difference this fact makes ? 
Besides, you did not deliberately and consciously tempt me 
to evil.” 

‘ ‘ But that made the temptation tenfold harder for you to 
resist.” 

“You were not to blame for that. But why dwell on the 
unhappy past ? I said truly that you, as yet, believe and 
understand but the poorest part of the Bible. If the Bible 
is true, is not God true ?” 


394 


NEAI? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


‘ ‘ Certainly. ’ ’ 

“ Must He not keep His word ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then listen : ‘ Let the wicked forsake his way and the 
unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the 
Lord, and He will have mercy upon him ; and to our God, 
for He will abundantly pardon.’ You are willing to forsake 
your unbelief, and all the evil that grew naturally out of it.” 

“ How sweetly those words sound as you read them,” 
said Saville musingly ; ‘ ‘ but can God, consistently with 
justice and His threatenings against evil, forgive my years of 
blasphemy, and my ” 

“ O Theron ! surely He will and can. Did He not 
teach His disciples to forgive each other seventy times seven ? 
Will He do less?” 

He looked at her very earnestly, and she saw from the 
expression of his face that the light was coming. 

“ Vera, my good angel, lead me on a little further,” he 
said. “ Even if I were forgiven, it seems to me the mem- 
ory of what I have been and what I have done will oppress 
me with gloom forever.” 

“ Read those words, Theron.” 

He took her Bible and read, “ The next day John seeth 
Jesus coming unto him and saith. Behold the Lamb of God 
which taketh away the sin of the world.” 

‘ ‘ The Bible also says,” she added, ‘ ‘ ‘ The blood of Jesus 
Christ cleanseth us from all sin.’ ” 

“ Where is that ?” 

She showed him. 

“Theron,” she said tearfully, “can you remember the 
scenes of Calvary and doubt God’s love ? That is the part 
of the Bible you don’t understand and believe. You never 
can understand God, or this. His book, until you make 
these words the key to all, ‘ God is love.’ I shall test you 


SEEKING LIFE, 


395 


now whether you believe the Bible or not,” and she repeat- 
ed earnestly these words : 

“ If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive 
us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness/* 

“ There is no escape here, Theron. It’s either God is 
true, or He is not true, and will not keep His word. You 
have acknowledged your sin with grief and sorrow, and you 
have no wish to continue in it. With this clear promise 
before you, what must be your inevitable conclusion ? Ah, 
Theron ! I read your answer in your face. You take God 
at His word. You believe. Can any happiness of heaven 
surpass this moment ?” 

“ O God !” he said, in a low, deep tone, “ I thank Thee 
for mercy which is as boundless as Thyself I” 

“ Did I not tell you once, Theron, that Shakspeare 
echoed the Bible ? He writes thus of mercy, you remember : 

‘ It is twice bless’d ; 

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes ; 

’Tis mightiest in the mightiest.’ 

“ I believe that God finds more joy in showing you mercy, 
than you in receiving it.” 

” I can almost believe it,” he said ; ” for the Being I 
dreaded inexpressibly an hour ago now seems the source and 
fountain of tenderness. O Vera !” he added, with an ex- 
pression which warmed her heart, and cheered her through 
the long, lonely years that followed, ” I am glad to owe 
heaven to you. This is better than saving me from death 
in Fort Clinton. I can wait patiently now.” 

An hour flew by and another like biief moments. The 
full moon filled the wild gorge with beautiful lights and 
shadows ; but they were too deeply absorbed to heed the 
witchery of nature. 

At last Saville reluctantly rose to go. ” No ; I will not 


39*5 JVEAJ^ TO NAT [/EE'S HEAET. 

go to the cabin/’ he said. “ After these words to you I 
wish to speak to no other human being to-day.” 

He then commenced looking for something on the 
ground, and said, 

“ Where was it that I, in my wicked passion, trod that 
ring into the earth ?” 

“ Here, Theron,” said Vera promptly. “ I have watch- 
ed the place ever since as if it were a little grave.” 

He soon recovered it, and taking her hand, said hesitat- 
ingly, 

“ Vera, can you not wear this ring as a token of my 
boundless gratitude to you ?” 

” Yes, Theron.” 

” It is tarnished and warped like myself.” 

” But it’s made of gold, Theron, gold that has been tried 
in the fire.” 

” This is a very different parting from our last,” he said, 
after a moment; ‘‘and we now have the earnest in our 
hearts that the time will come when these sad farewells shall 
cease. Good-by. Good by once more, my true, loyal 
Vera. I will watch till I see you enter the cabin door.” 

” Theron, you never made me so happy before. Good- 
by.” 

He watched her as she passed through the alternate light 
and shadow that fell upon the path. He saw the flutter of 
her handkerchief as she waved him a farewell at the cabin 
door, but still he did not go. The dawn was tinging the 
sky before he could bring himself to leave the place where 
heaven had opened to him in the stony desert of his despair. 


A MYSTERY SOL FED— GREAT CHANGES, 397 


CHAPTER XXXVni. 

A MYSTERY SOLVED GREAT CHANGES. 

O N the day following his visit to the mountain valley, 
Saville received orders which occasioned one of those 
sudden changes that are characteristic of military life ; for 
he was directed to report as soon as possible at Charleston, 
South Carolina. He wrote quite a long letter to Vera, in 
which he recognized the kind Providence which had brought 
about his new and happy belief and feelings before this wide 
separation took place. 

“ I must go this very day,’’ he wrote, “ for my orders 
are urgent. Your promptness gave me our interview last 
evening, and the peace, hope, and faith which grew out of 
it. I now feel that my feet are on the rock, Vera, and no 
distance, time, or disaster can finally separate me from you. 
How much I owe to you !” 

The winter of 1779-80 was one of unprecedented severity. 
Even the great bay of New York was frozen over, and the 
British ships were ice-bound at their anchorage. If Wash- 
ington's army had been strong and thoroughly equipped, 
he could have attacked the men-of war as if they were inland 
fortresses. New York city was no longer on an island, and 
the heaviest artillery could approach it on every side. Gen- 
eral Knyphausen, in command, was greatly alarmed, appre- 
hending that Washington would attempt a coup de main, and 
he made extraordinary efforts to secure himself against a sud- 
den attack from the Continentals. But Washington’s troops 


398 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


were half naked, shivering, and starving among the snow-clad 
hills of Morristown. For weeks at a time the whole army 
was on half allowance, and this at a period when the intense 
cold made generous diet most necessary. 

“ For a fortnight past,'’ Washington wrote on the 8th of 
January, “ the troops, both officers and men, have been al- 
most perishing with want. Yet,” adds he, feelingly, “they 
have borne their sufferings with a patience that merits the 
approbation, and ought to excite the sympathies, of their 
countrymen.” 

In addition to all other horrors, the loathsome disease of 
small pox became epidemic, and often there was not even a 
blanket with which to cover a sick and dying man. Thus 
the Continental army could scarcely keep soul and body to- 
gether, much less strike vigorous blows at their ice-bound 
enemies, who were at least comfortably housed and well 
fed. 

In this dark hour Washington entreated Heaven continu- 
ally in behalf of his country.* He was often seen bowing 
in prayer in some retired place of the forest, and it is rational 
to believe that we witness the answer to his petitions in his 
sublime and more than human fortitude. 

Had such a winter occurred at the time when Vera was 
chiefly dependent upon her own exertions, it might have 
been fatal to her and all the inmates of the cabin. It cer- 
tainly would have been so, in the condition in which Saville 
found them in the autumn following the burning of their 
first home. But his forethought and liberality, and the 
' labors of Tascar, had provided against such an emergency, 
i and though she and her father suffered somewhat from the 

* A soldier in the regiment of which the writer was chaplain dur- 
ing the late war, stated that his grandfather had seen Washington 
at prayer, in the woods near his quarters at Morristown, more 
than once. 


A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT CHANGES. 399 


cold during this interminable winter, they had food in 
abundance. 

It passed away at last, and spring brought another long 
campaign, during which she heard from Saville but very 
seldom. 

Another winter and summer passed, and there were long, 
anxious intervals, with no tidings from the South. Letters 
were rare and uncertain luxuries in those days. 

At last the thrill of joy which went through the land at the 
surrender of Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown was felt, even in 
the secluded mountain cabin. Tascar, half wild with excite- 
ment, brought the news from West Point. Vera was pro- 
foundly thankful, as the event promised to hasten the day of 
peace ; while her father was more elated than he had ever 
been before with the hope that he would soon be, without 
doubt, beyond British law. As the war continued, and the 
colonies had maintained the struggle from year to year, his 
hope had gradually strengthened, that even the enormous 
power of England might at last be wearied into yielding the 
liberty which her colonies claimed. Under the influence of 
this hope he grew somewhat less moody and depressed, and 
at times he even tried, in a grim, poor way, to be more com- 
panionable to Vera, whom he pitied profoundly in her lone- 
liness. 

In the winter of 1781-2 a letter, that had been long on 
the way, came from Saville, stating that he had been wound- 
ed in the siege of Yorktown, but that he was now out of 
danger and recovering. It breathed the same quiet, hopeful 
spirit which had pervaded all his letters during this long ab- 
sence. His faith was strengthening with time and trial. 

Vera immediately wrote fully and feelingly in reply, and 
Surgeon Jasper, who was still at West Point, and a friend 
that could be depended upon, promised to make great 
efforts to secure her letter a safe transit. Its receipt did 


400 


N£AI? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


much to hasten Saville’s recovery ; but such was the feeble 
and exhausted condition of his system, that his surgeon in- 
sisted upon his remaining in the South during the winter. 

The spring of the auspicious year of 1782 again clothed 
the Highlands with beauty, and rumors of peace were glad- 
dening the hearts of the people. 

One day Tascar came up from West Point in an unusual 
state of excitement. 

“ Tse a-tinkin’. Missy Vera,’' he said, “ dat peace mus’ 
hab come ober de water, for dey’s gitting ready for wonder- 
ful doin’ s at de P’int. Nebber see de like afore. Dey’s 
buildin’ a kind ob arbor wid trunks ob trees, and de 
branches all twisted togedder, and it’s as big — why de hull 
army could git under it. An’ dey tells me dat dere’s 
a- g wine to be a big dinner^ an a dance, an a '‘few de joyful, 
an’ no end to wonderful tings. I seed Capting Molly, too, 
an’ she said we mus’ all come down an’ see, kase eberybody 
would be dar. Gin’ral Washington and big ladies and 
eberybody else.” 

Vera saw that her father was as greatly interested as herself. 

“Do you think that it does mean peace, Vera?” he 
asked. 

” We will go and see.” 

” Oh, no ; I cannot ” 

“Father, I am going, and you would not let me go 
alone.” 

So, on the morning of the 31st of May, the strange little 
group, consisting of the tall and grizzled exile, carrying his 
long rifle ; his beautiful daughter, with her golden hair fall- 
ing in wavy fullness far over her shoulders, and the delighted 
Tascar, who capered along the path like a frolicsome span- 
iel, often exposing their basket of lunch to imminent danger 
from his odd freaks, started for the plain of West Point, 
where the celebration was to be held. 


A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT CHANGES. 401 

They reached the vicinity of their old cabin during the 
forenoon, and Vera said, 

“ Father, we will rest and eat our lunch by the spring 
near mother’s grave.” 

“ Oh, no, Vera, not there,” he answered, with a remorse- 
ful face. 

“Yes, father, there. Mother is not lost to us. She is 
only absent now ; but I am sure she would like us to re- 
member her, and to be near her resting-place.” 

He yielded. He was forming the habit of yielding to her 
more and more, for, since her will had governed, he recog- 
nized the fact that he had enjoyed both security and the 
comforts of life. 

Vera left her lunch untasted for some time, as she gazed 
wistfully around the familiar place, now so changed in con- 
sequence of the fort having been built. With a deep sense 
of gratitude she saw that the grave had not been molested 
or trampled. 

“ I would rather spend the day here, recalling the past,” 
she said, as they were preparing to leave, “ than in witness- 
ing the grand festival. But come, the longer I remain, the 
harder it will be to go.’ ’ 

“ O Esther, my wife ! would to God you had seen these 
better days,” sighed her father. “ Would to God you had 
seen the time when we could begin to feel sale.” 

“ She does see it, father. I feel sure she is rejoicing in 
everything that brings us hope and joy.” 

He shook his head, but followed silently. 

Vera was young, and still had the keen interest of youth 
in all that was new, strange, and beautiful ; and her eyes 
kindled and her face flushed with delight as the wide plain 
of West Point, lined with barracks, tents, and officers’ quar- 
ters, all decorated with flags and gay streamers, opened be- 
fore her. Across this plain, groups of people, and battal- 


402 JVEAI^ TO NATURES HEART, 

ions of soldiers with their weapons glittering in the bright, 
early summer sunlight, were moving in what seemed from 
her distant place of observation to be bewildering confusion. 

The magnificent colonnade, or arbor, which was built on 
a slight rise of ground in the rear of Fort Clinton, seemed 
to her a structure more wonderful and beautiful than even 
the imagination could create. 

It was indeed one of the most remarkable edifices of the 
kind ever erected, and had required the supervising skill of 
an eminent French engineer by the name of Major Ville- 
franche, and the labors of a thousand men for over ten days. 
It was two hundred and twenty feet long and eighty feet wide, 
and was composed of the simple materials which the trees 
in the vicinity afforded. A grand colonnade of one hun- 
dred and eighteen pillars, which were simply the trunks of 
tall, stately trees, ran down the center, and supported the 
lofty roof, that was formed by curiously interwoven boughs 
and leafy branches ; the fragrant evergreens, in which the 
region abounds, being the chief components. Rafters sloped 
beneath this leafy canopy from the ridge to two lighter rows 
of supporting pillars on either side, and from these were sus- 
pended wreaths of evergreens and flowers. The ends and 
sides, up to a lofty height, were left open, so that the guests 
could pass in and out unimpeded, and also from every part 
command a view of the plain and surrounding scenery. This 
openness of formation also caused the immense structure to 
give the impression of light, airy grace. 

As V^ra approached, and saw that groups of people were 
passing unhindered under and through the beautiful bower, 
she induced her father to go thither also. He seemingly had 
come to the conclusion that he would humor Vera to her 
heart’s content on this occasion, though it cost him a greater 
effort than even she realized to face the curious stare he saw 
on every side. At first she was so absorbed and delighted 


A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT CHANGES. 403 

with the new and wonderful scenes, that she did not notice 
how many eyes were following her. Wherever they went, 
faces were turned toward them, on which were the blended 
expressions of surprise, admiration, and curiosity. But Vera 
was so utterly free from vanity and self-consciousness that she 
did not notice this till the fact was forced upon her. With 
her lovely features aglow with pleasure and intelligent inter- 
est, she strolled through the arbor at the side of her father, 
calling his attention to the festoons of flowers, the garlands 
encircling the rustic pillars, the emblematical devices, fleurs- 
de-lis, and other decorations significant of the American al- 
liance with France. 

As she was examining the fanciful manner in which the 
central pillars were surrounded by muskets and bayonets 
bound together by the intermingled colors of each national- 
ity, she suddenly became conscious of a dark, bloated face 
directly before her, and the rude, leering stare of two evil 
eyes. She sprang back as if she had seen a viper coiled 
among the devices about the pillar, for she recognized in the 
stranger the tipsy officer who had insulted her by trying to 
snatch a kiss at the time she went to Constitution Island in 
search of tidings from Saville. 

“ Ha ! my pretty one, I see you remember me,” he said 
brassily. “ I hope you are now prepared to make amends 
for your coyness then. If so, I will forego the grudge I 
might naturally hold against you.” 

Vera gave him no other answer than a look of aversion 
and contempt, which her expressive features made very un- 
mistakable, and hastening to her father, she induced him to 
follow the people who were streaming across the plain to the 
northern side, as if something of interest were taking place 
there. 

They had not gone very far before the fellow, captivated 
by Vera’s beauty, determined to make another attempt to 


404 


JVEAJ? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


break down her reserve. She started violently as she found 
him walking coolly at her side. 

“ Upon a gala occasion like this/’ he said, “ a fair lady 
needs a gallant. I am an officer and a gentleman, and I 
can make the day pass more pleasantly.” 

“You are not a gentleman, sir, or you would not thrust 
yourself upon those to whom your society is evidently un- 
welcome. ’ ’ 

“ Nay, my lovely charmer ; your frowns and coyness 
only stimulate my desire to win your favor.” 

Almost before the words were spoken a blow laid him 
prostrate on the plain, and the enraged father stood over him 
and said, with significant emphasis, 

“ As you value your life, do not approach my daughter 
again to-day. ’ ’ 

The scene was drawing a curious crowd, and Vera, taking 
her father’s arm, hastened to escape, leaving her insulter to 
explain his plight as he pleased. The scene explained itself, 
however, and the prostrate officer picked himself up and 
skulked off amid jeers and shouts of laughter. 

But among those who had witnessed the incident was no 
other than the redoubtable Captain Molly herself, who, with 
quite a following of “ swatehearts,” was about as jolly a 
widow as one could imagine. She hastened after Vera, and 
soon overtook her, crying volubly, 

“ The top o’ the mornin’ to ye, Misthress Vera, and the 
same to yerself, sur. It did me heart good, sur, to see how 
ye gave that capting a lesson in manners. That clip at the 
side o’ his head is the fust wound he’s got in the war, for 
they say he’s moighty discrate wid men, though bould as a 
lion or some wusser baste wid women. Faix, and I’m hon- 
est glad to see ye agin, an’ a-lookin’ as pertyas a wild rose, 
too. I don’t wonder the fellers is all a-starin’ at ve.” 

Vera’s greeting was cordial though quiet. For some rea- 



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A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT CHANGES. 405 

son she felt safer since Molly was within call ; but she 
shrank sensitively from the attention she drew, for the 
“ captain,'’ in her blue petticoat, cocked hat, and the scar- 
let coat of an artilleryman, was the cynosure of all eyes, be- 
ing followed by a crowd of gaping country people wherever 
she went. 

“ This festival is not in honor of peace after all," said Vera. 

“ Did ye think that it was ? Well, yez live so far behoind 
the mountings that ye’re a little behoind the times. Pace 
is cornin’ soon, but they call this a fate, and it’s to the 
honor of the Dolphin of France. ” 

“The Dolphin of France?" said Vera, turning to her 
father with a look of inquiry. 

“ Yis, it’s in honor of the birth of the Dolphin of France. 
That’s what ivery one’s a-say in’. It’ snot meself that knows 
what kind of a crayther it is that’s been bourn, but I’m 
a-hopin’ its mother’ll have a lot more, if we are to have as 
big a day as this ivery toime !" 

“ She means that the fiie is in honor of the birth of the 
Dauphin of France, the child who is heir to the French 
throne, " said Vera’s father, his grim face re’axing at Molly’s 
words and manner. 

“ Now ye’ve got it straight, Misther Brown. It’s nothin’ 
but a baby we’re makin’ sich a fuss about. But niver ye 
moind, since we’re goin’ to have the fuss and frolic. An’ 
now I must go back to me swatehearts. But belave me, 
Misthress Vera, none on ’ em comes up to the fust ’ un. T ^ c 
thried many a one since poor Larry got his head shot off, 
but I shall niver git his loikes agin," and with that she 
scampered off, to Vera’s great relief. And yet the maiden 
had cause to bless the meeting ever afterward. 

Escaping from the staring, laughing crowd which Molly’s 
appearance and words drew around them, they soon reached 
the northern edge of the plain facing the river, from which 


4 o 6 NEAI? to NATURE^S HEART. 

point they witnessed a beautiful spectacle. Approaching 
the shore were parallel lines of barges decorated with flags 
and streamers, and the water around them was flashing and 
sparkling under the strokes of multitudinous oars. These 
boats contained General and Lady Washington and his suite, 
Governor Clinton and his wife, eminent generals with their 
staffs, and a large number of prominent citizens and ladies 
of rank and fashion. A band of music led the way, and ac- 
companied the distinguished guests up the hill to Major- 
General McDougall’s quarters, while the artillery thundered 
out its salvo of welcome. 

Vera watched everything with the wonder and delight of a 
child, and it was a relief to her, and especially to her father, 
that the pageant absorbed all attention, and that they, for a 
time, were utterly unnoticed. It gave them a chance to re- 
cover from the nervousness and disquietude which their en- 
counter with the rude officer and the irrepressible Molly had 
occasioned. As Washington approached, Vera recognized 
him with a strong thrill of pride and gratitude. 

“ He has the same quiet, noble face,” she thought ; “he 
is too great to be elated by all this pomp and show.” 

After his Excellency, his wife, and suite had disappeared, 
Vera was annoyed at finding so many glances turning toward 
her again. Unlike, perhaps, the majority of her fair sisters 
who have since visited West Point she did not realise that 
her own lovely face was the chief cause. In fact, both father 
and daughter appeared as if they might have stepped out of 
some old story for book of fairy tales ; and Tascar, as he 
followed them, would have answered very well as a hobgob- 
lin page. Many young officers lingered near, and cast wistful 
glances at the maiden, but their manner was respectful and 
unobtrusive. 

Vera now suggested that they should find some quiet nook 
near to the great colonnade, whence they could see all with- 


A MYSTERY SOL FED— GREAT CHANGES, 407 

out attracting notice themselves ; and her father was only 
too glad to accede, for this exposure was taxing his resolu- 
tion to give Vera a day of pleasure, at every cost to himself, 
almost beyond his power of endurance. 

Soon after their arrival, Vera had directed Tascar to find 
Surgeon Jasper ; but he returned, saying that the doctor had 
been summoned home, on important matters, a few days 
previous ; so they had no other resource than to do the best 
they could themselves. 

They at last found a spot a little off at one side, from 
which, under a clump of trees, they had a good view of the 
plain, the colonnade or arbor, and surrounding heights. 
Plain country people and utter strangers, who, like them.- 
selves, were bent on seeing the pageant, and had no other 
thought, sat down around them, hiding them, in part, from 
view, and shutting away the curious and obtrusive. It was 
not long before they felt a sense of security and retirement in 
this sheltered place, which was decidedly reassuring, and even 
the poor exile became interested in the brave scenes before 
him, especially as they gave evidence that the Americans 
were gaining rather than losing the power to cope with their 
most formidable enemy. 

At two o’clock in the afternoon, it seemed to them that an 
innumerable host appeared. The hills on the eastern side 
of the river were covered with troops, while from every side 
of the plain, and on the circling heights around, bayonets 
began to gleam, led forward by that music which chiefly 
has the power to set the nerves tingling with excitement. 
The earth beneath them trembled under the heavy, rumbling 
wheels of the artillery. Within an hour the plain and hills 
adjacent, on both sides of the river, were covered with ser* 
ried ranks of men, their burnished weapons lighting up the 
scene with flashing brilliancy, by their vivid reflection of the 
genial sunlight. 


4o8 


NEAJ^ TO NATURE'S HEART 


About the middle of the afternoon, three cannons were 
fired as a signal. All the troops around the immense circle 
advanced simultaneously in grand and glittering array ; and, 
after a brief display, in full view of the arbor, the men were 
permitted to stack their arms, and throw themselves upon 
the ground, or stroll about near the line of their position. 

All the officers, except one field officer to each brigade, 
and one battalion officer to each regiment, repaired to the 
colonnade, where, they had been informed, “ General Wash- 
ington expected the pleasure of their company at dinner.” 
From every part of the plain, and in barges on the river, the 
gallant veterans of seven years of war were gathering to the 
banquet — a most unwonted experience to them. 

But, while Vera was enjoying every moment beneath the 
shelter of her tree, and in the shadow of the honest, home- 
spun people, who were wondering, with breathless interest, 
at the rapidly shifting scenes, she was the object of plots and 
counter-plots. The officer whose insolence had been pun- 
ished, in part, went away with oaths of vengeance. As far 
as he could learn, Vera was friendless, and her father under 
a cloud of some kind, so that there would be no one to re- 
sent any indignity he might offer them. He knew well 
where to find men of the basest sort like himself, and, as 
liquor flowed like water that day, the evil-disposed were ready 
for any reckless deed. He resolved that if Vera stayed until 
the dusk of the evening, he w’ould carry her off to his quar- 
ters up the river. He laid his plans cunningly, rapidly, and 
secretly, taking into his plot only a sufficient number to 
carry it out. It was briefly this : After night obscured every- 
thing, he and his party would suddenly crowd up and around 
his victim, separate her from her father, tie a handkerchief 
over her mouth, so that she could make ho outcry, and 
spirit her off to the shore, where a boat would be in waiting. 
But it so happened that a bad fellow of this officer’s com- 


A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT CHANGES. 409 


pany was one of Captain Molly’s satellites ; for she still was 
not over choice in her company. She saw this man sum- 
moned away for a few moments by his captain, and the 
whispered conference that followed ; and the quick-witted 
camp-follower surmised that a plot against Vera was on foot. 

“ What did that spalpeen say to ye ?” she asked the man 
on his return to her side. 

“ He was a-tellin’ me what a handsome' woman ye is.” 

“If ye don’ t tell me what he said, ye may take yerself 
off.” 

“Now, Molly, me darlint, why should ye care what he 
said?” 

‘ ‘ I don’ t care ; I’ ve only took a notion to see how good 
a friend ye’re to me. ” 

“ Well, ye won’t tell, thin, nor do anythin’ to sthop the 
fun that’s up ?” 

“ Of course not.” 

“ Well, the capting, who is moightyswate on the women, 
is a-gwine to carry off a perty little gall to-night, and I’m to 
help him,” he whispered in her ear. 

“ Is that all ?” she said carelessly. 

“ I tould ye it was somethin’ ye wouldn’t care nothin’ 
about. ’ ’ 

Molly made no further reference to the subject, but not 
long after she casually, and with no apparent motive, took 
a position where she could keep Vera and her father con- 
stantly under her eye, and she continued to maintain such 
a position. 

As the sun declined toward the western highlands. Gen- 
eral and Lady Washington, his suite, and the most distin- 
guished guests moved from General McDougall’s quarters, 
through lines of saluting soldiers, to the arbor, where was 
spread as elegant a dinner as the times and circumstances 
permitted. Five hundred guests, ladies and gentlemen, sat 


410 


J\r£AJ? TO NATURE''S HEART. 


down to the dinner, and the thousands who looked on, kept 
by the guards at a respectful distance, regarded these fa- 
vored ones as among the immortals. Vera saw Washington 
at the head of the table, and she wondered how one so ex- 
alted in station could have been so simple and kind in his 
manner toward her. She found herself watching him, and 
thinking about his interview with her, during the time he 
was presiding over the banquet. 

But there was another, seated toward the further end of 
the table, who would have absorbed her thoughts completely 
had she known of his presence. Pale, thin from much suffer- 
ing, and with the sleeve of his left arm hanging empty at his 
side, Saville sat quietly among the guests, equally in igno- 
rance that the one never far from his thoughts was but a few 
rods away. He had heard of the proposed fete in honor of 
the Dauphin, had hastened his journey, and arrived just in 
time to sit down with his brother officers beneath the rustic 
arbor. The insignia upon his uniform showed that he had 
been promoted to the rank of colonel ; but the expression 
of his face revealed that he had achieved a character which 
is above all earthly rank and distinction. 

He had not written to Vera of the serious nature of his 
wound, and of the irreparable loss it had occasioned, know- 
ing that it would pain her to no purpose. She would grieve 
over it continually ; but, when she came to see him, he 
could, in a measure, make light of it. 

Saville found himself seated next to an officer possessing 
the same rank as himself, and of a very noble mien, and dis- 
tinguished bearing. There was a peculiar gravity in his 
manner and expression, and he seemed to have no disposi- 
tion to become convivial, as was the case with the majority. 
This made him all the more a congenial companion to Sa- 
ville, and they both speedily became interested in each other. 
Saville thought he had never met a man of more wide and 


A MYSTERY SOLVED- GREAT CHANGES. 41 1 


varied information, or one better able to express himself with 
elegance and force. He also noted that he was treated with 
deference by those who knew him. The stranger soon in- 
troduced himself as Colonel Wellingly, adding, with fine 
courtesy, “ I have long known you, Colonel Saville, by 
reputation as an accomplished engineer officer, and I have 
heard of your gallantry at Yorktown.’’ 

“ I feel highly honored,’’ Saville replied, “ that my name 
has ever had favorable mention to you ; but I confess that I 
am thoroughly tired of war, and would be glad to devote 
what there is left of me to the arts of peace.” 

“ Well,” said Colonel Wellingly musingly, “ I suppose 
the war is practically over, and I am glad, on account of the 
evils and suffering it ever occasions. But I am at a loss to 
know to what I shall devote myself, unless it be to the erec- 
tion of a hunting-lodge among these magnificent mountains. 
I have never seen a better place in which to while away the 
useless remnant of a life.” 

From the first Saville had detected a low undertone of 
sorrow and disappointment in the man’s words and accent. 
Colonel Wellingly evidently knew that he had suffered deeply 
in the past, for he said, as the cloth was being removed, 
preparatory to the drinking of toasts, 

“ We have both seen trouble in our day. Colonel Saville ; 
but I envy you the hopeful spirit you possess, and the pur- 
pose still to accomplish something in life. I am growing 
listless and tired.” 

Thirteen toasts, appropriate to the occasion, were an- 
nounced successively, and each one was followed by the dis- 
charge of artillery and joyous music, and, by not a few, with 
long, deep potations, which made their march to their quar- 
ters anything but steady. 

After the thirteenth toast was drank, the guests rose from 
the tables, which were rapidly cleared away in preparation 


412 


ATE A/? TO NATUEE'S HEART, 


for the dancing of the evening, and the regimental officers 
joined their respective commands. 

As the twilight deepened, the feu-de-joic which had been 
ordered commenced with the thunder of thirteen cannon, 
followed by volleys of musketry along the whole line of the 
army on the surrounding hills. Three times the circling 
lines of fire flashed out, and the hills and mountains were 
kept resounding with the mighty echoes, until they gave way 
to another and more awe-inspiring sound — the thrice-repeated 
shout of acclamation and benediction for the Dauphin, by 
the united voices of the entire army, on every side. The 
poor boy was destined to soon hear, and from his own peo- 
ple, volleyed curses, instead of benedictions, and a pitiless 
cry for his blood, instead of loyal acclamations. 

As the last vehement shout died away, the night was il- 
luminated by a brilliant display of fireworks from Fort 
Webb. The discharge of three cannon concluded the cere- 
monies of the day, and was the signal for the troops to march 
to their cantonments. 

In the mean time the arbor or colonnade had been brill- 
iantly lighted up, and the dancing was about to commence. 
Vera had been almost overwhelmed with awe at the deep 
reverberations of the artillery and the impressive closing 
scenes. She now persuaded her father to let her see Wash- 
ington open the ball, and then she would return home fully 
content. And when his Excellency, with dignity and grace, 
having Mrs. General Knox for partner, carried down a dance 
of twenty couples in the stately minuet, she felt as if the 
grandest visions which her old friend Will Shakspeare had 
ever raised in her mind, had been more than fulfilled. 

But all was growing confused and somewhat disorderly 
where they stood, and her father had said more than once, 

“ Come, Vera, it is getting late, and we have far to go.” 

Vera turned away with a deep sigh ; she had ever felt a 


. A MYSTERY SOL TED— GREAT CHANGES. 413 


longing for social pleasures and the companionship of people 
of culture. The beautiful and brilliant scene before her 
showed how attractive such occasions were in reality, and 
she had looked on with the natural desires of a young and 
healthful mind. She had once hoped to participate in such 
social reunions at the side of Saville, and even the thought 
had been ecstasy. But now she felt that the deep shade, 
which fell so early across their humble mountain cabin, was 
the type of the somber shadow that would ever rest upon 
her life. 

“ Come, Vera,'' said her father still more urgently to the 
girl, who was lingering, for she saw in the gay throng be- 
neath the arbor a face that reminded her of Saville. 

They found their steps impeded ; the confusion around 
them increased ; suddenly her father was struck down by a 
blow from some one behind him, and before Vera could cry 
out, a handkerchief was passed around her mouth, two men 
seized her hands on either side and thrust them within their 
arms, and she was being forced away in the darkness, she 
knew not whither ; but she could not help associating the 
dark, bloated-faced officer who had twice before insulted 
her, with the outrage. 

The assault had been cunningly conceived and skillfully 
carried out, for the villainous accomplices were making loud 
demonstrations around the prostrate father, thus drawing the 
attention and the crowd thither, while the daughter was be- 
ing hurried off unperceived. 

Never, perhaps, had Vera been in greater peril before. 
She was so overcome by terror and a sense of suffocation 
that she was almost fainting, when the handkerchief was 
snatched from her mouth, and she wrenched violently from 
the grasp of her captors. 

'* Ye spalpeens !" cried Captain Molly, with a wild Irish 
howl, and she drew her nails across the eyes of one of the 


414 


JVEAJ? TO NATURE'S HEART, 


men. No wildcat of the neighboring mountains could have 
given a deeper or more vindictive scratch, and he was glad 
to stumble off in the darkness away from the crowd which 
Molly’s shrill voice was rapidly gathering. 

But it was toward the principal villain that the redoubt- 
able “ captain' ’ directed her chief attention, and she laid 
upon him a clutch from which he vainly sought to escape. 

“I’ll tache ye a lesson,” she yelled. “ Ye shall have 
some wounds afore the war is over, I warrant ye, an' they 
won't be in yer back 'nuther, but on yer big bloated face, 
where yer grandchildren kin see the scars ;' ’ and she clawed 
him like a tigress, and until his cries made a duet with her 
own shrill voice. 

On being released, Vera had looked around a moment in 
hesitating terror. She could not see her father, and she 
knew not where he was. All around were dark, strange 
faces, and hurrying forms of men and women, and the air 
was filled with confused cries, above which arose Molly's 
loud vituperation, for with every blow and scratch she fired 
a volley of epithets. But a few rods away, the bewildered 
girl saw the lighted arbor, with Washington full in view. If 
she could reach him she knew that she would be safe. She 
darted through the intervening throng, past the startled and 
astonished guests, and knelt at his feet. 

“ Officer of the guard,'' cried Washington sternly, 
“ what means such ruffianly disorder without that women 
must fly to us for protection ? Arrest all concerned in it. 
What do you wish, madam ? Do not be afraid," he said 
to Vera. 

“ Your Excellency," cried Saville, stepping eagerly for- 
ward, “ I will answer for that maiden with my life.” 

At the sound of his voice Vera sprang to his side and 
clung, panting, to his arm. 

“ Indeed, Mr. Saville, I think that she is capable of an- 


A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT CHANGES. 415 

swering for herself. If I mistake not, I have met this young 
girl before.” 

“Yes, your Excellency,” faltered Vera, with her hand 
upon her side ; “ and you were kind to me and therefore I 
fled to you for protection now.” 

‘ And you shall have full protection, my child ; so, calm 
your fears. Indeed, Mr. Saville looks as if he might defend 
you against the world.” 

By this time the attention of all was directed to Colonel 
Wellingly. With a face as pallid as that of Vera’s, he came 
forward and asked, in a husky voice, 

“ Will you please tell me your name ?” 

“ Vera — Vera Brown.” 

‘ ‘ Is that your only name T ' 

“Yes.” 

The colonel looked at her a moment, shook his head de- 
spondently, and muttered, as he stepped back, 

‘ ‘ It’s very, very strange. I never saw such a resemblance ; 
and the same old habit, too, of putting her hand to her 
side. ” 

“ O Theron 1 you have lost an arm. You did not tell 
me,” said Vera, bursting into tears. 

“ That is a small loss compared with all I have gained. 

I did not wish to pain ” 

“My daughter, where is my daughter.?’’ cried a loud, 
agonized voice from without, and wrenching himself away 
from the guards who had arrested him as one of the disturb' 
ers of the peace, the exile rushed into the lighted arbor. » 
All fell back before his tall form, and wild, threatening 
aspect, for the expression of his face was a ferApIc bleridit^g 
of anguish and rage. 

“ She is here, Mr. Browri,’^ said Saville promptly. 

“ You are both among friends arid he led Vera to him 
and placed her hand iri his., 


4i6 


TO NATURE'S HEART, 


“ Come,” said her father eagerly ; “let us go. Let us 
escape while we can. ” 

Again Colonel Wellingly stepped forward and confronted 
the exile. 

“ Who are you ?” he asked excitedly. 

The moment Mr. Brown’s eyes fell on the questioner, he 
staggered back as if he had received a heavy blow. 

“Are you Arthur Wellingly?” he asked, in a strange, 
hoarse whisper. 

“ I am,” was the agitated answer. 

“ You did not die, then ?” 

“ No, Guy ; and I have been searching lor you all these 
years. O my brother !” and he clasped the trembling exile 
to his heart. 

‘ ‘ O Esther, Esther ! my poor, dead wife ! why could you 
not have seen this day?” Guy Wellingly groaned, with re- 
morseful memories. 

“ She is dead, then ?” his brother said, in a low, shud- 
dering tone. 

“ Yes, dead.” 

At this moment, Vera, to whom the strange scene 
began to grow intelligible, stepped forward and said ear- 
nestly, 

“ No, father — no, uncle — not dead, but in heaven.” 

“This is a remarkable scene,” said Washington, with 
moistened eyes. ‘ ‘ Colonel Wellingly, I congratulate you 
on the success of your long search, of which I have often 
heard with sympathy. I already esteem myself as among 
the friends of your niece, and think you will have just cause 
to be proud of her ; and I shall hope to make the acquaint- 
ance of your brother. I now suggest that you take your 
relatives to your quarters, for you must have much to speak 
of in which strangers have no part.” 

“ I thank your Excellency,” was the grateful reply. “ I 


A MYSTERY SOL FED— GREAT CI/ANGES. 417 


have been so overwhelmed by this unexpected meeting that 
I am not myself/’ 

“Your emotions are most natural, sir, and are to your 
credit.” 

“ Vera,” said Saville, coming to her side and taking her 
hand, “ I am overjoyed at your good fortune. I thank God 
from the depths of my heart. My little wild flower has be- 
come a great lady.” 

He felt her fingers seeking her mother’s ring, and she an- 
swered in a low tone, “ No outward changes can change that 
of which this ring is the token. You shall ever be first. 
Good night.” 

But before they could move away, a shrill voice just 
without the arbor cried, 

“Ye didn’t arrist him at all ; I arristed him meself, and 
I’m a goin’ to take him afore his Ixcellency. Git out o’ the 
way, ye spalpeens, or I’ll tear yer eyes out and she broke 
from the guards, dragging her bleeding, half-murdered captive 
with her, and did not stop till she stood before Washington. 

“ This is the spalpeen, your Ixcellency, as was carryin’ of 
the perty Misthress Vera. I heerd the hull plot, and I 
cotched him in the very dade.” 

“What does all this mean?” demanded Washington 
sternly, and yet with difficulty maintaining his gravity, for 
the wretched officer looked like a torn quarry in the claws of 
some strange bird of prey. 

“ Indeed, sir, all we can tell your Excellency is that we 
found him on the ground, and this woman on top of him 
pounding him within an inch of his life.” 

At this there was a general and irrepressible burst of laugh- 
ter, in which even Washington joined for a moment. But, 
instantly recovering his gravity, he asked, 

“ Miss Wellingly, does this woman state the truth about 
this man ?’ ' 


JVEAI? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


418 

** She does, your Excellency ; but I think that he has 
been sufficiently punished and humiliated already/’ 

“ I cannot agree with you upon this occasion,” said 
Washington, his face becoming almost terrible in his indig- 
nation. Then addressing Captain Molly, he asked, 

“You are the woman who took her husband’s place at 
his gun in .the battle of Monmouth ?” 

“ I be, your Ixcellency ; an’ it was moighty swate in ye 
to give me the pay and rank of sergeant.” 

Washington’s face twitched a moment, but he managed to 
say, with his former sternness, 

“ You are a far better soldier than the craven whom I am 
glad to see in your clutches. Will you oblige me by taking 
from his uniform all insignia of rank ?“ 

“ Faix, yer Ixcellency, I will. Barrin’ the presence of the 
foine leddies. I’d take ivery stetch off him as I’d skin an eel.” 

A roar of laughter followed this speech, and her miserable 
victim looked as if he would indeed be glad to have the 
mountains fall and cover him from the universal scorn. 

“ Now,” continued Washington to an officer, “ take 
him to the guard house, and to-morrow I wish him drum- 
med out of camp with the Rogue’s March and the cul- 
prit was led away. 

“ Come, my dear niece, my heart is too full to endure 
this publicity any longer,” said Colonel Wellingly. 

“ In one moment,” Vera replied ; and crossing to Cap- 
tain Molly, she took her hand in both of hers, saying, 

‘ ‘ I thank you from the depths of my heart. If you ever 
need a friend, come to me. ” 

“Have ye become a great leddy ?” 

“ I should not be a lady at all did I fail to remember, 
with grateful affection, all who were kind to me in my need. 
Good-by for the present, my brave, true friend. I owe you 
more than words can express. ’ ’ 


A MYSTERY SOLVED— GREAT CHANGES. 419 


“ An’ }e pay me in the coin I loikes best. Faix, ther’s 
nothin’ that goes furder wid man nor baste than a koind 
word. Though I’m a bit rough and reckless loike, Td 
ruther have ye spake to me as ye does than a hatful of 
crowns. ’ ’ 

“ The money shall not be lacking either,” said Colonel 
Wellingly, offering her his purse. 

“ Not a penny will I iver take for anythin’ I’ve done for 
Misthress Vera,” and she darted away. 

With a low courtesy to General and Lady Washington, 
and a swift glance to Saville, Vera permitted herself to be 
led away with her father ; and the wondering guests were 
boundless in their admiration, and almost equally so in 
queries that could not as yet be answered. 

Tascar, who had been watching all in a state of excitement 
that made him almost as explosive as one of the cartridges 
of the /eu de-joie, was sent to inform old Gula that her mas- 
ter and mistress would not return that night ; and the tale 
he told his mother, and acted out in pantomime that night, 
was more marvelous than any of her weird imaginings. 

A few hours later the beautiful colonnade or arbor was 
darkened, and echoed only to a lonely sentinel’s tread 


420 


NEA/i TO NATURE'S HEART. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


EXPLANATIONS. 


VEN the rude temporary quarters which Colonel Wei- 



1 ^ lingly occupied, at West Point, gave evidence that he 
was a man of wealth and culture ; for, as far as possible, he 
had surrounded himself with objects that ministered to re- 
fined and luxurious tastes. He had been the more inclined 
to carry out his bent, from the fact that his duties would, in 
all probability, keep him at his present location for a long 


time. 


In the fullness of his heart it seemed as if he could not do 
enough for his brother and niece ; and, for one naturally 
stately and reserved, his manner was affectionate in the ex- 
treme. He embraced Vera again and again, and his eyes 
rested on her with an expression of wistful tenderness, which 
proved that she was the embodiment of a very dear memory. 

When he heard that they had not partaken of any re- 
freshment since their frugal lunch early in the day, he 
brought out a bottle of rich old madeira, and ordered his 
servant to prepare as sumptuous a supper as could be pro- 
vided promptly. 

“ I cannot realize it all,” said Vera again and again ^ and 
her father ejaculated, more than once, 

” Thank God ! your blood, Arthur, is not on my soul. 
It is now possible that I may again become a man." After 
a few moments he asked hesitatingly, 

" Shall we tell Vera ? She does not know.” 


EX PLANA TIONS. 


421 


“ Yes, Guy ; it’s right she should know. I will tell her, 
for I feel that I am as much, if not more, to blame than 
you.” 

“ No, Arthur ; no. There is no excuse for the murder- 
ous blow I struck you, and the remorse and fear, that have 
followed me through all these years, have nearly destroyed 
my reason. I sank lower than the beasts ; for they, at least, 
provide for their own. I wonder that you can forgive me. 
1 can never forgive myself.” 

“ I do forgive, and in the same breath ask forgiveness. 
Henceforth we must be to each other all that she who is 
dead would have wished. I shall seek to make reparation 
to you and Vera to the extent of my ability, and you shall 
share in all I possess. It is best that Vera should know 
everything, for with those who are as closely united as we 
shall be, there should be no mysteries. Vera, the highest 
praise I can give you is, that you closely resemble your 
mother when she was of your age. Never did a maiden 
live who had greater power to win and keep affection than 
Esther Ainsley. She was of humble station, being the 
daughter of a curate, who had a small charge near to our 
estate ; but she was dowered with a beauty of person and 
character which I have never seen equalled. Our mother 
died when Guy and myself were children, and our father 
died before I was through with my studies, so that I as el- 
dest son, became heir to a large property, at a time when I 
needed restraint, guidance, and counsel, more than wealth 
and independence. The lessons of self-control and patience, 
which should have been taught us in childhood and youth, 
were left to the schooling of bitter experience ; and bitter, 
in truth, it has been to us both. I valued my untrammeled 
position chiefly because there was no one to prevent me 
from marrying the daughter of this obscure and penniless 
curate. Only her own will, which was as strong as she was 


422 


y£AR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


gentle, did prevent the marriage, for I sought in every pos- 
sible way to shake her resolution. There was not a trace of 
gratified vanity in her refusal, but only the keenest distress. 
At last she told me that she loved some one else, and I think 
she was about to inform me who it was, but my darkly vin- 
dictive face prevented her. Egotistic and passionate fool 
that I was, I felt that no one had a right to thwart me, and 
I determined to discover the one, whom I at once regarded 
as a personal enemy. To be brief, I was not long in learn- 
ing that it was Guy, my younger and only brother ; but, in 
the infatuation of my passion, this fact made no difference, 
and, as the eldest, I would brook no rivalry. I confronted 
him one evening, as he was returning from a tryst with 
Esther, and arrogantly informed him that he could not cross 
my path in this matter. I first made him a large offer, if 
he would quit the country and leave the field clear for me. 
But he said, and wi ih good reason, that he would not re- 
linquish Esther Ainsleyfor the wealth of England, much less 
for the pitiful sum I offered. One word led to another. 
We both became enraged, and at last I sprang toward him 
in a transport of passion, and he, equally unmanned, struck 
me on the head with a heavy canc that he carried and for 
weeks thereafter I was unconscious.” 

Guy Wellingly, who was silting with his face buried in his 
hands, groaned deeply. 

“You see, Vera,” continued her uncle, “I was even 
more to blame than he. I had it in my heart to strike just 
as heavy a blow. Indeed, we were both beside ourselves 
at the time, and scarcely responsible. The trouble was that 
neither of us had ever learned the first lesson of self-re- 
straint.” 

“ O Arthur ! I was sure I had killed you. I brought 
water from the brook, but I could not revive you, and 
then came the one desperate, all-absorbing desire to fly and 


EXFLANA TIONS. 


423 

hide, which has been my curse ever since. I felt that I had 
upon me the mark of Cain. ’ ’ 

“We have both paid dearly for that rash quarrel, in 
which I insist that I was to blame more truly than yourself. 

I had a narrow escape from death. My body servant found 
me late at night, and I revived only to pass into a brain 
fever, and then after I regained consciousness came the 
dreary weeks of slow convalescence, in which recovery was 
retarded by my restlessness and self-reproach. For a time 
I tried to forget my sorrow and disappointment in dissipa- 
tion, but I soon turned from sensual excess with loathing. 
In every sane moment I saw Esther’s pure, reproachful face. 
1 do not think that a man, who has been absorbed by a love 
for a pure, good woman, can ever make a beast of him- 
self, unless there is something essentially gross in his 
nature. 

“ As soon as I was able, I traced you and Esther to Liv- 
erpool, and all I could learn was that you had been married 
and had sailed for America. Her father and mother were 
quite broken hearted at the loss of their child. The only al- 
leviation of their sorrow that I could give was to secure to 
them a competence for life. As time passed on, and I 
brooded over the past, quiet life in England became hateful 
to me. I resolved that 1 would come to this country and 
try to find you. As the years passed, this search became a 
passion with me, and the increasing difficulty and doubt 
only stimulated my purpose. It was a good thing for me, 
for it absorbed my sad thoughts, and kept my mind from 
preying on itself. I would often follow a supposed clue for 
months, only to be disappointed. I have often passed up 
and down this river, little dreaming that the objects of my 
search were but a few hundred rods away. Oh ! that I had 
found you in time to have seen Esther, and asked her for- 
giveness. 


424 


/\r£AJ? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


“ But a few words more will explain how 1 happen to be 
in the Continental service. In my wandering over this coun- 
try, I became greatly enamored with its beauty and magnifi- 
cence, while the wildness of many of its vast solitudes ac- 
corded with my moods and tastes. I am very fond of hunt- 
ing, and I could gratify that bent here to my heart’s desire. 
I have no special ties in England, so I returned thither, sold 
my estate to advantage, and, to insure myself, invested large 
sums in France and Holland, as well as England, in addi- 
tion to that which I brought with me to this country. When 
the American struggle for independence commenced, my 
heart took sides with this people. They had been so kind 
and sympathetic in every case, as they learned that I was try- 
ing to find relatives who had migrated hither, that I identi- 
fied myself with their cause from the first. Besides, my long 
residence here convinced me of its justness. On seeing that 
the struggle was inevitable, I instructed my English agent to 
transfer my funds to Holland, and from thence I have drawn 
them largely hither, and the American Government is, to 
some extent, in my debt. During the war, I sought the 
duty of a staff officer, as it brought me in contact with many 
troops from all parts of the country, and enabled me to con- 
tinue my inquiries concerning any one answering to yout 
name and description. But you escaped me utterly, until 
our most unexpected meeting to-night. I was getting weary 
and discouraged in my search. I was becoming oppressed 
with my loneliness, and life began to drag heavily ; but now 
that I have found you, Guy, and have this dear girl, who is 
the image of her mother, to provide for, I shall find abun- 
dant zest in living.’’ 

As he finished his narration, Vera put her arms around 
his neck, and said, 

“lam equal to mother in only one thing. I can love 
very deeply, and you have won my heart already. I won’t 


EXPLANATIONS. 425 

let you regret having found me, uncle. Then going to 
her father’s side, she added, with reassuring caresses, 

“ After this night, do not again doubt that God is good, 
father. Though I never before knew what the deed was 
that led to your flight from England, I have been sure that 
Mr. Saville’s words were true, and that your ‘ remorse was 
greater than your crime.’ ” 

“ No, Vera,” replied her father, in strong emotion. “ If 
I had in fact slain this generous and forgiving brother, I 
should never have known peace in this or any other world. 
As it is, Arthur, I am but a miserable wreck of a man, 
warped, by base fear and years of brooding remorse, from 
all good and noble uses. There is nothing that makes such 
awful havoc in the soul as a constant sense of guilt. The 
knowledge that you are living has brought me inexpressible 
relief, and I ask nothing more, and nothing better than this 
fact. But Vera still has life before her. I have at times 
meditated self destruction, in the hope that she might thus 
escape the curse which I felt resting on me ; but something 
held me back.” 

“ Thank God !” murmured Vera shuddering. 

” Now she can be very happy,” continued her father. 
“ Since I am not the foul criminal that, in justice to Mr. 
Saville, I told him that I was, his pride will no longer be an 
obstacle in the way of their marriage.” 

“Vera marry Colonel Saville!” exclaimed her uncle. 
“ He is married already. ” 

“ Saville married !” ejaculated her father, in unbounded 
surprise and rising anger. ‘‘ Then I have an account to 
settle with him and his tall form towered up instinct with 
passion. 

At the mention of Saville’s name Vera’s face became scar- 
let ; then, at her father’s words, her pallor was equally 
marked. 


426 


NEAR TO NATURES HEART. 


“Vera,” said her uncle, in a tone of deep distress, “what 
trouble have we here ?’’ 

But the maiden, strong in her conscious rectitude, rallied 
promptly, and, in a firm, quiet tone, said, 

“ We have no trouble whatever, except we make it. 
Uncle, Mr. Saville is a true, honorable man, and he has 
never asked me to do a thing that he thought wrong. Both 
father and myself would have been dead years ago were it 
not for his unspeakable kindness. Father, be calm. You 
cannot strike Theron Saville without striking me. He is 
my brother, my more than brother, and I love him better 
than life.“ 

“ But, Vera,“ remonstrated her uncle, with a gravity al- 
most approaching to sternness ; “in your secluded life you 
have not learned how rigid the proprieties of life are in these 
matters. You bear the proud name of Wellingly, and ’ ’ 

“ Uncle,” interrupted Vera, with a dignity and firmness 
of which her gentle mother had never been capable, ‘ ‘ I bear 
a prouder name than that of Wellingly. I am a Christian, 
and, in the light of God’s truth, and not the fashion of this 
world, I have thought this matter out to its right issue, and 
I shall stand by my decision. Rather than permit any one 
to come between me and Mr. Saville, I will go back to the 
poverty and obscurity of our mountain cabin for the rest of 
life. I do not speak these words as a willful, ignorant child, 
but as a woman who has been matured and sobered by years 
of bitter sorrow. Mr. Saville is my dearest friend — nothing 
more ; and he never can be anything more. I have known 
for years that he is married. He told me himself, and he 
never cherished one dishonorable thought toward me. I 
declare to you both that there is nothing in our relationship 
to which my sainted mother would object. But I would 
rather perish by slow torture than stand aloof from him or 
treat him coldly.” 


EXPLANA TIONS. 


427 


“ This is very extraordinary,” said her uncle. 

“ I cannot reconcile his conduct with your words,’ ’ add- 
ed her father, in deep agitation. 

The strain of the eventful day had at last become too great 
for Vera, and she felt herself growing faint. 

“Be patient,” she said wearily; “you shall know all. 
As uncle said, we shall have no mysteries. But I can say 
no more to-night. In pity, uncle, remember what I have 
passed through to-day.” 

“ Forgive me, my child,” he said remorsefully, and 
bringing her a glass of wine. “ I will trust you, Vera,” he 
added ; “for your words and manner are those of truth and 
purity. My only fear is lest you should be misled through 
your innocence and ignorance of the world.” 

She looked him steadily in the face a moment as only the 
innocent could do, and then replied, 

“Uncle, my honor and good name are as safe in Mr. 
Saville’s hands as in yours or father’s. He is a Christian 
gentleman, in the truest and strongest sense of the word.” 

“ There, my dear, I am satisfied, and your father must 
be, too, until he can have fuller explanation. Calm your- 
self now, and let me show you to the best resting-place which 
a soldier can provide for a guest who is as loved and wel- 
come as she was unexpected and, without listening t® 
her remonstrances, he gave her his own room, and kissed 
her tenderly as he said good-night. 

Vera was too exhausted to think ; but she was dimly con- 
scious that, after all, it would be difficult to make her father 
and uncle understand the honest skepticism from which Sa- 
ville’s course was the natural outgrowth. What was so clear 
to her mind might seem dubious, or worse, to theirs. She 
was not so weary, however, but that she thanked God, with 
a boundless gratitude, that He had led her safely through 
that season of doubt and strong temptation. If she had 


428 


Ar£A/^ TO NATURE'S HEART 


yielded, she saw plainly that her proud and stately uncle 
would have cast her away in bitter contempt ; or, what was 
far worse, her father might have killed her lover. 

Early the next morning Saville sought an interview with 
Colonel Wellingly, and, to secure privacy, took him to Jas- 
per’s quarters, which he was occupying, in the surgeon’s 
absence. 

Vera’s words and manner had convinced her uncle that 
she had not consciously erred from the path of rectitude, 
but he was not so sure of Saville ; and it must be confessed 
that he was not a little anxious, for he saw that Vera was a 
girl of unusual force and decision, and he feared that if Sa- 
ville chose to take advantage of the strong hold he had upon 
her affections, he could make them trouble indeed. Al- 
though he had been very favorably impressed with Saville, 
his knowledge of the world made him slow and cautious in 
trusting men who are under strong temptation. And yet he 
was pleased with the fact that the young man had come to 
him so promptly, feeling that it might give him a chance to 
prevent difficulties. 

“ Colonel Wellingly,” said Saville, after they were alone, 
“ I have sought the first opportunity possible that I might 
make explanations which are your due, and which it might 
cause your niece pain and embarrassment to give. I have 
no fears that my good name would suffer through any words 
of hers ; on the contrary, she would excuse conduct for 
which I have only bitter condemnation. I owe to her my 
life, and much more than life, and it is a privilege to save 
her from the least pain and annoyance. Are you willing to 
listen to an honest statement of all that has occurred between 
us ?’ ’ 

“Colonel Saville,” was the reply, “ I am gratified that 
you have thus early sought this interview, for it tends to as- 
sure me that my niece’s confidence in you as a Christian 


EXPLANA TIONS. 


429 


gentleman is not misplaced. I admit that, from her father’s 
words and manner, last evening, after he learned that you 
were a married man, I feared that I might have a quarrel 
with you. The Wellingly blood has ever been over hot 
upon certain kinds of provocation, and on no point more 
sensitive than that of our women’s honor.” 

“You may still think that you have cause to quarrel 
with me ; but, be that as it may, I shall not gloss the truth. 
You cannot condemn me more bitterly than I do myself. 
Nor shall I shrink from any punishment or course which 
you may impose.” And he gave a faithful history of his 
acquaintance with Vera from the first. While, in justice to 
himself, he showed how his wrong conduct was the natural 
fruit of his erratic views, he did not in the least extenuate 
it ; but, on the contrary, spoke of it with a censure so strong 
as to be almost fierce. It was evidently the one thing for 
which he could never forgive himself. Indeed, in his bound- 
less admiration for Vera, he forgot himself, and became her 
advocate rather than his own. He argued that she had been 
tempted as no woman ever was before — tempted by one to 
whom she was profoundly grateful, not only for fnuch kind- 
ness, but for the fact that he had stood by her after her 
father’s statement that he was a criminal. She had been 
tempted by one upon whom she was almost utterly depen- 
dent for existence and the necessities of life. And, what made 
resistance tenfold more difficult, he had not sought to be- 
guile her as a villain might have done, but he had been open 
and honest in his error, full of plausible arguments ; and 
he had, for long months, and with all the skill he possessed, 
sought to undermine what he regarded as her baseless faith. 

“Moreover,” Saville concluded, “ there was much in my 
own unhappy relations and in the conduct of my wife which 
excited her womanly sympathies in my behalf ; but, in the 
face of all, she was loyal to truth and duty. I have now 


430 


N£A/^ TO NATURE'S HEART 


been through a long war ; but I have seen no heroism, no 
fidelity, and all-enduring fortitude equal to that which she 
has displayed through long, weary years, and I love and 
honor her next to God in whom she led me to trust. I am 
through, sir, and I have told you the truth.'' 

As Saville had warmed with his narrative, and spoke with 
graphic earnestness and power, Colonel Wellingly walked 
the floor in deep excitement, with strong and varying emo- 
tions contending on his face. When Saville concluded, he 
said, 

“ This is a most extraordinary statement, and yet I can- 
not doubt its truth. I have been inclined by turns to em- 
brace you in the profoundest gratitude, and to shoot you on 
the spot. Poor child, poor child ! What a strange, sad lot 
she and her mother have had ! Heaven grant that I . may 
shield Vera from any more of such dark and terrible ex- 
periences." 

‘ ‘ I shall ever echo that prayer, sir, ' ’ Saville added ear- 
nestly. 

" Colonel Saville," continued Colonel Wellingly, after a 
few moments of deep thought, " I cannot doubt, after hear- 
ing all that you have said, that Vera is correct in believing 
you are now a Christian gentleman ; but you were once a 
very dangerous man, sincere as you evidently were in your 
errors. As a matter of curiosity, I have read some of the 
writings of your old masters, and, though very friendly to 
the French people, I predict for them terrible evils, as the 
result of this destructive and disorganizing philosophy." 

" I can believe you, sir. Were it not for a firm, gentle 
hand, that stayed and rescued me, it would have brought 
evils into two lives that would have been irreparable." 

" Your own strong self-condemnation," said Colonel 
Wellingly, "has disarmed me of censure. Your feelings 
and motives are now evidently honorable, and it would be 


EXFLAN A TIONS. 


431 


wretched folly to drag forward the evils of the past to mar 
the present. But, Colonel Saville, you know the way of 
the world, and how ready it is to suspect of evil. Even now 
I fear that rumor may couple your name with that of my 
niece in a sense that neither of us can wish.'' 

‘ ‘ I recognize and respect your wish. I will not even see 
Miss Wellingly again, if you think such a course wise.'' 

“No," Colonel Wellingly replied, after a little thought. 
“ I do not think such a course would be wise," for he 
remembered Vera's decisive words. “ I think it would be 
better for you to see her occasionally. But a gentleman 
of your tact could easily give the impression that your rela- 
tion to my niece was only that of frank, cordial friendship. 
At the same lime, it might be well to apply for duty else- 
where. ' ’ 

“ I look upon you," Saville answered, “ as Miss Wel- 
lingly’ s guardian, and shall be guided strictly by your judg- 
ment. Believe me, sir, I should regard it as the greatest mis- 
fortune that I could suffer, if any act of mine should cast 
a shadow on her fair name. You are at liberty to state to 
her father all that I have told you ; and I sincerely hope that 
his mind will now rapidly recover a serene and healthful 
tone. ' ' 

“ I will satisfy him," was the reply, “ as you have satis- 
fied me. Please do us the favor of dining with us at six this 
evening." 

When Vera awoke, late in the day, her thoughts again 
reverted to the explanation which she supposed she must 
make, and she dreaded the ordeal unspeakably. But when 
she emerged from her room, her uncle took her in his arms, 
and said, 

“ Vera, Mr. Saville has told me all, and I am proud of 
you, as the best and noblest little girl that' ever breathed." 

“ That’s like Mr. Saville," said Vera, coloring deeply. 


432 


TO NATURE'S HEART. 


“ He has been making me out an angel, and himself almost 
a villain.” 

“Well,” said Colonel Wellingly, laughing, “the more 
he called himself a villain, the more sure I became that he 
was an honorable man. At any rate, 1 have invited the vil- 
lain to dine with us this evening.” 

She rewarded him so promptly and heartily that the wary 
colonel was filled with alarm. 

” She is too demonstrative,” he thought, ” and will show 
all the world that Saville has her heart so he began, very 
gravely, ” Vera, my dear, when in Mr. Saville’ s presence, I 
hope you will ” 

She put her hand over his lips, and said smilingly, 
” Don’t fear, uncle ; a sensitive woman’s nature is a better 
guide in these matters than the soundest advice.” 

During the hour of dinner Colonel Wellingly w’as abun- 
dantly satisfied that he had nothing to fear, for the most evil- 
disposed of gossips would not have seen anything in Saville’s 
or Vera’s manner toward each other to which exception 
could have been taken. But, as he gave her his hand, in 
taking leave, she touched her mother’s ring upon his finger 
so significantly that he went away with his heart warmed and 
comforted by the thought, ” She will be unchangeable amid 
all changes.” 

Immediately after Captain Molly left the arbor, the 
evening before, Saville joined her, and said, in a low 
tone, 

” Molly, my brave girl, will you do for me one more good 
deed to night 

” Faix, an’ I will ; a dozen on ’em, if I’ve toime.” 

” Promise me, by all that took place in Fort Clinton, that 
you will never mention my acquaintance with Miss Vera to 
any one. It’s not the world’s business, and the world sus- 
pects evil where there is no evil.” 


EXPLANA TIONS. 


433 


“ Misther Saville,” was her reply, “ may that big Hes- 
sian that ye killed cotch me agin if I iver say a word. ” 

Tascar had often been warned, but the boy was perfectly 
safe, for he had a habit of dense ignorance on any subject 
concerning which he did not choose to speak. 

Only enough of Vera’s romantic story got abroad to lend 
an increased charm and interest to her beautiful person. If 
at first there had been some disposition to ask what had 
been her relations with Saville, their frank, unaffected man- 
ners in society banished the thought of evil from all save 
those who, being wholly bad themselves, have no faith in 
anything good. 

In spite of herself, Vera speedily becanie a belle, and, in- 
stead of being a hunted, frightened animal of the mountains, 
as she once described herself to Saville, she was now estab- 
lished in the highest social position, and soon became a spe- 
cial favorite with General and Lady Washington. In addi- 
tion to her beauty, she possessed unusual solid attractions, 
as heiress of her uncle’s large wealth, and suitors began to 
gather from far and near, as, in her favorite comedy, they had 
beset the door of Portia, in Belmont ; and, like Portia, she 
often sighed, ‘ ‘ By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is a- weary 
of this great world.” But the casket which contained Vera’s 
image was Saville’s heart, and that was closed to all the 
world. She instructed her father and uncle to give a cour- 
teous but firm refusal to all who asked of them permission 
to pay their addresses, and those who sought to lay siege 
without such formality were speedily taught that any atten- 
tions that were not merely friendly were most unwelcome. 

Colonel Wellingly had been much pleased with the situa- 
tion of the mountain cabin, and at once commenced enlarg- 
ing it as a hunting-lodge. He saw that his brother, from 
long habit, would be much happier there than anywhere 
else, and it was a place in which he felt that he could while 


434 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


away many months of the year when his duties would per- 
mit. The incubus, in a very great measure, lifted from Guy 
Wellingly’s mind, and he was no longer subject to his old 
fits of gloom, which bordered on horror and despair ; but it 
was evident that he would always be a grave, silent man, 
finding the shadows cf the forest more congenial than the 
haunts of men, 


HUSBAND AND WIFE, 


435 


CHAPTER XL. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

S AVILLE, at Colonel Wellingly's request, did not apply 
to be sent from West Point ; but, before many weeks 
elapsed, he was summoned away for the most unexpected 
and painful reasons. Papers came through the lines, from 
New York, containing the following statement : 

“ A Double Crime in High Life. — Mrs. Julia Saville, 
the wife of Colonel Saville, of the American Army, has 
eloped with Captain Vennam, the officer whom she married 
with such indecent haste, on receiving from him the report 
of her husband’s death. Captain Vennam had obtained 
leave of absence, on the pretext of visiting some friends in 
Nova Scotia, whither the guilty pair have sailed. This was 
bad enough. But, on the night before their departure, an 
event occurred which seems to give proof of a malice and 
vindictive hate, of which it is difficult to believe a woman 
capable, save on the theory that when she does fall, she sur- 
passes man in wickedness. In the middle of the night, 
flames broke out in Colonel Saville’s mansion, which has 
been occupied by his mother during the war. Mrs. Saville 
barely escaped with her life, and found refuge in a small 
cottage on the estate, and she is now quite ill from fright 
and exposure. But the worst part of the story is, that a 
short time before the fire manifested itself, she was sure that 
she heard the voice of her son’s recreant wife beneath her 


436 JV'EAJ^ TO NATURE'S HEART. 

windows, and also the unrecognized voice of some man. 
She also asserts that the house did not take fire from within, 
but from the front piazza, and that it swept up the main 
stairway. She and the servants escaped by a rear staircase 
and entrance. The night was dark and windy, and favor- 
able for the fiendish deed. Everything was lost. The au= 
thorities should thoroughly investigate,” etc. 

Colonel Wellingly, as he read it, unconsciously exclaimed, 
“ Shameful ! Poor Saville !” 

In a moment Vera was at his side, and, before he could 
prevent it, also read the paragraph. 

” Uncle, I wish to see Mr. Saville.” 

” But, Vera, my dear, it may not be prudent to ” 

” O uncle I if Mr. Saville has friends, should they noi. 
show themselves such now ?” 

” I will go to him with all my heart. There are many 
things which a man can do which are not proper for a young 
lady. The very thought of that vile creature, his wife, is 
soiling to you. ” 

” I do not think of her, but of him in his cruel chains,” 
she replied, weeping bitterly. ” Never was there a more 
hideous bondage than his.” 

But her uncle was relieved of all perplexity, for his ser- 
vant brought him a note from Saville to Vera, containing a 
copy of the paper, but in his care. 

” I am so overwhelmed with shame and sorrow,” Saville 
had written, “ that I cannot trust myself to see you. Were 
it not for the faith which you taught me, I could not have 
survived this last blow’ and disgrace. By the time this 
reaches you, I shall be on my way to New York, and shall 
make every effort to induce the British authorities to permit 
me to visit my mother, and provide for her comfort. I have 
not seen her now for years, and, if necessary, I will throw 


HUSBAND AND WIFE. 


437 


up my commission and become a citizen in order to reach 
her side at once/’ 

The English commander, after a little delay for explana- 
tions, courteously acceded to Saville’s request, on condition 
that he would not do anything during his residence preju- 
dicial to his majesty’s service. Peace was now almost as- 
sured, and there was a disposition to relax the rigid military 
rule of the city. 

The son found that he had not reached his mother a day 
too soon, for she was sinking under the effects of her fright, 
loss, and loneliness. His presence revived her, however ; 
but she rallied slowly, and was a feeble invalid for the re- 
mainder of the summer and autumn. He hoped to move 
her to West Point ; but she was not equal to the journey, 
and most reluctant to leave the spot where she had spent so 
many years. He made the gardener’s cottage, which she 
occupied, as comfortable as he could with his limited means ; 
for his property, lying chiefly in the city, had melted away 
during the war, and the money he had deposited in Paris 
was now inaccessible. He denied himself everything 
that he might make his mother comfortable, and devoted 
himself to her, trying to make amends for his long absence, 
and she slowly regained health and strength under his 
care. 

And yet those long months of watching and poverty taxed 
Saville’s faith and fortitude to the utmost. The open shame 
of his wife did not make her less his wife in the legal sense. 
Her offense gave no cause for divorce before the laws as 
then existing. In his intense desire to escape his chains, 
he had the legal archives searched for some precedent ; but 
found that for over a hundred years no divorce had been 
granted, in the province of New York, on the ground of his 
wife’s crime. 

The future grew darker and more uncertain than ever. 


43 ^ NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 

His wife had disappeared utterly from his knowledge. There 
was a rumor that Captain Vennam had gone to England. 
But Saville knew that it was ever the custom of satiated lust 
to cast away its victims, and Vennam, of all men, was the 
one to coolly abandon a woman of whom he had wearied. 
Therefore Saville’s wife would probably become a wanderer 
on the face of the earth, and might perish in some miserable 
place and way, and still he remain in ignorance of the 
event. If she filled a nameless grave in a foreign land, so 
long as the fact could not be proved, Saville would still re- 
main bound, and the chances were now that he would wear 
out his life in this slow torture of uncertainty.. He could 
never approach the proud Colonel Wellingly and ask for his 
niece while such a doubt hung over him, even if his own 
jealous regard for Vera’s honor would permit. 

As the dreary winds of November began to blow, he be- 
came deeply depressed. Captain Vennam’s regiment had 
been ordered to England, and there was not the slightest 
chance for his return. Saville did not know to what part of 
Nova Scotia he had taken his wife. He had lost all clues. 
In frequent and painful reveries he saw himself growing old 
in doubt and uncertainty, ever chained to a possible, suppos- 
ititious woman, who might be living a vile life of crime in 
some of earth’s slums. He saw Vera’s bright youth and 
beauty fading into dim and premature age under the blight 
of hope deferred. Then, after life had nearly passed, and 
the chance for happiness was gone, he pictured to himself 
the return of his wife as a hideous, shrunken hag, as loath- 
some in appearance as in character. And he shuddered at 
the thought that he could neither refute nor escape her claim 
— “ A'ty husband ! ” 

A letter from Surgeon Jasper, that came in with a flag of 
truce, greatly increased his despondency, for it contained the 
incidental statement that “ the young officers were half wild 


HUSBAND AND WIFE. 


439 


over Miss Wellingly, and that she might take her pick from 
the army. ” 

One dreary day, when even the wild storm without was a 
cheerful contrast to his thoughts and feelings, he came to the 
deliberate conclusion that Vera’s future should not be de- 
stroyed with his own, and, knowing that a flag of truce 
would go out the following morning, he sat down and 
wrote, telling her just how he was situated. 

He told her that he was a cripple, that the war had con- 
sumed his property, and that the sum deposited in Paris, 
even if he should be able to get it, would not be more than 
sufficient to support his mother. These facts in themselves 
formed a good reason why she should be released from the 
promise of which her mother’s ring was the token. He 
then stated plainly the uncertainty he would always probably 
be under in regard to the fate of his wife, and he earnestly 
urged Vera not to lose her chance of happiness. “ I will 
wear your mother’s ring henceforth as your friend and 
brother, hoping and asking for nothing more. ” 

He inclosed this letter to the care of her uncle, and inti- 
mated that she had better show him the contents. 

He went out in the storm, and made it certain that the 
letter would go the next morning, and then returned to his 
humble home, chilled, cold, and wet. But he had achieved 
a great self-sacrifice, and he felt better. He now believed 
that Vera would form new ties and interests, and eventually 
become happy in them. For himself he must look beyond 
the shadows of time. 

He did his best to make his mother pass a cheerful even- 
ing, and succeeded. She did not dream that he had given 
up the dearest hope of his life, and that his genial manner was 
like sunlight playing upon a grave. She had been ill and 
weak, and he had not burdened her with his sorrow. 

They were just about retiring, when a light, uncertain step 


440 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART 


was heard upon the little porch. There was a low, hollow 
cough, and then came a hesitating knock. 

Saville took a candle and went to the door, and the form 
of a woman stood in the driving sleet. The candle flared 
in the wind, and nearly went out. 

“Who are you, madam, and what do you wish.?” he 
asked. 

‘ ‘ I am your wife,” said the woman, in a low, desperate tone. 

He knew from her voice that she was ; but, in his sur- 
prise and strong feeling, he could not immediately speak, 
and she continued, 

“ I suppose you will thrust me out to die also, as I have 
been turned from the door of my own home, and by my 
own father, this bitter night. I deserve nothing better at 
your hands. I said I would never cross your threshold again, 
but I must or perish, and I dare not die. If you will only 

give me shelter in some out , ’ ’ but here a paroxysm of 

coughing interrupted her. 

“ I cannot turn you away in such a night,” said Saville, 
in an agitated tone. “ Indeed, I pity you from the depths 
of my heart. I will give you food and shelter here for to- 
night, and in the morning will try to find a refuge for you.” 

“ No, Theron,” said his mother, who had drawn near 
to the door and overheard all ; “if that woman comes in, 
I will go out.” 

“ O mother ! you women have no mercy on each other.” 

“ I will not pass the night under the same roof with that 
creature,” said his mother sternly. 

“ As I am a Christian man, she shall have shelter some- 
where,” he said; and throwing a large cloak over her 
shoulders, he took her to the cottage of a poor man living 
near, who was under great obligations to Saville, and, with 
much difficult}’’, secured a room for her there. He then 
took her food and wine with his own hands. 


✓ 



“I AM YOUR WlI'K 




SAID THE Woman 









A 



HUSBAND AND WIFE. 


441 


“ Why do you do this ?” she asked. 

“ Julia,” he said kindly, ” if I had been a Christian in- 
stead of an unbeliever when we were married, you might 
never have come to this wretched state. ’ ’ 

” Will you forgive the past, and take me back as your 
wife again she asked, her old trait of self-seeking promptly 
showing itself. 

” I will and do forgive you,” he said gravely, ” and I 
will do all for your comfort that I can in my poverty ; but 
you can never be my wife again save only in name.” 

“Well,” she muttered, ‘‘that’s more than I could ex- 
pect ; and it’s a great deal better than dying in the street like 
a dog. ’ ’ 

The next day she was very ill and feverish, and Saville sum- 
moned a physician. After a brief examination, he told Sa- 
ville that she could live but a short time under any circum- 
stances, since she was in the last stages of hasty consumption. 

Her wretched history after leaving New York was soon 
told. Vennam left her penniless in a northern city, and, 
after a brief life of crime, she became ill from exposure in 
the rigorous climate. A British officer who had known her 
in New York secured her a steerage passage thither. She 
arrived in the storm, but did not dare to go to her father s 
house till after dark. He had sent her from his door with 
curses, and then she came to the one whom she had wronged 
most. 

She was in great terror when the physician told her that 
she could not live, and the scenes at her bedside were har- 
rowing in the extreme. Saville patiently and gently tried to 
lead her to the Merciful One who received and forgave out- 
casts like herself ; but her mind was too clouded by terror 
and too enfeebled by disease to understand anything clearly 
save the one dreadful truth that she must die. Her deliri- 
ous words were even worse than her partially sane cries and 


442 


N£AJ? TO NATURE'S HEART. 


moans ; but Saville, with patient endurance, remained at 
her bedside almost continually, and ministered to her with 
his own hand to the last. All that medical skill and faith- 
ful care could accomplish was done to alleviate her suffering 
and add to the number of her days. With earnest words 
and prayer he sought to instill into her guilty and despairing 
heart something like faith. But that had happened to her 
which may happen to any who persist in the ways of evil : 
she had passed so far down into the dark shadow of moral 
and physical death that no light could reach her. Her end 
was so inexpressibly sad, that, although by it Saville was re- 
lieved from his cruel bondage, he yet sat down by her life- 
less body and wept as only a strong man can weep. 


WEDDED WITH HER MOTHER'S RING, 443 


CHAPTER XLI. 

WEDDED WITH HER MOTHER’ S RING. 

V ERA was alone with her uncle when she received Sa- 
ville’s letter. She read it with a blending of smiles 
and tears, and then passed it to Colonel Wellingly, saying, 

“ Mr. Saville wished you to see this, and I am very glad 
to have you do so, for it will satisfy you more fully than ever 
what kind of a man he is. ” 

Her uncle read the contents with great interest, and then 
said, ‘ ‘ This letter does Mr. Saville much credit, and, I 
must say, I think he takes a correct and sensible view of 
things. Your promise was a rash one, at best, and it was 
extorted from you in a moment of dire emergency. More- 
over, what he says is true, and it is probable he will never 
hear a word from his wife again. And yet Vera Wellingly 
cannot marry a man whose wife may appear any day.” 

“ I do not expect to marry him, uncle.” 

“Now that is sensible, too. You must be quite well 
convinced by this time that you can take your pick, and 
make a very brilliant match. ” 

“ Where is your wife, uncle ?” said Vera, with tears in 
her eyes. “ You are the kind of man who can always take 
his pick.” 

He was silent, for she had touched a very tender chord in 
him, as he had in her heart. 

“ It may be that some can manage these things in a sensi- 


444 


NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 


ble, thrifty way/" she continued ; “ but it does not seem to 
run in our blood to do so. Forgive me, uncle, for touch- 
ing a sensitive chord : but I wish you to learn to interpret 
my heart by your own ; then this question will be finally 
settled, and you can shield me from many unwelcome at- 
tentions.” 

“ Well/" said her uncle, trying to give a lighter turn 
to the conversation, “ somebody’s loss is mine and your 
father’s great gain."" 

“ Yes/" said Vera ; “I intend to make myself so neces- 
sary to you both, that you will be like two dragons toward 
every one with suspicious designs. I am satisfied that it is 
money that most of them are seeking, at best ; and Theron 
loved me and was kind when I was hungry and in rags. 
Foolish fellow ! I suppose he was in a state of high trag- 
edy when he wrote this letter, and thought that I would lake 
him at his word. He will never make such a blunder again 
after receiving my answer."" 

But one day, before she found a chance of sending her 
reply to New York, her uncle entered his quarters in a state 
of great excitement, and said, producing a city paper, 

“ Vera, it is due to you that you should see this at once.” 
And he pointed out the following paragraph ; 

“ Rare Magnanimity. — The Saville tragedy has at length ended, 
and ended strangely. As might have been expected, Captain Ven- 
nam soon abandoned the wretched woman who eloped with him, 
and she returned to this city in a sick and dying condition. In the 
pitiless storm of the night of the 25th ult., she was repulsed from 
her parents’ door and, in her despair, sought help from her most 
deeply wronged husband. Strange to say, he has treated her with 
wonderful kindness. He could not give her a refuge under the 
same roof with his mother ; but he procured for her a comfortable 
room, and was untiring in his attentions, doing everything in his 
power to alleviate her sufferings during the few days she survived. 


WEDDED WITH HER MOTHER'S RING. 445 


We have these facts from the citizen at whose house she died, and 
can vouch for their correctness.” 

Vera dropped the paper and fled to her room, and several 
hours elapsed before she reappeared. When she did, her 
eyes gave evidence that many tears had mingled with her 
joy. In curious and feminine contradiction to her plainly 
expressed purpose, she did not write to Saville by the next 
flag of truce. “ He is now at liberty to write to me another 
and a very different letter,” she said to herself; “and I 
shall wait till he does.” 

But when Saville’s letter came, as it did in time, it breathed 
only a quiet and friendly spirit, such as he would naturally 
write on the supposition that she had accepted his last letter as 
the basis of their future relations. It was not in Vera’s 
nature to write and inform him that he was all at fault, and 
that she was like a rose waiting to be plucked. “ He will 
have to find out all for himself,” she thought ; “ but I fear 
he will be ridiculously blind, and continue his high tragedy 
until some unforeseen circumstance opens his eyes.” 

Early in the spring Mrs. Saville so far regained her health 
that her son was able to return to the army, a step rendered 
specially necessary by his pecuniary circumstances. He 
called promptly on Vera after his return to West Point ; but 
it so happened that there were several strangers calling at her 
uncle’s quarters at the time, and his manner was somewhat 
formal and distant. She was provoked at herself that she 
permitted her bearing to be tinged by his. 

After the guests were all gone, her uncle found her in 
tears, and said, 

“ Foolish child ! as if you had cause to worry. You are 
both like gunpowder, and only need a spark to set you off. ’ ' 

“ You are very much mistaken, uncle. Theron is worse 
than a spiked cannon.” 


446 TO NATURE'S HEART. 

The next evening, she and her father were taking a walk 
by the river, near the extreme point of land where Saville 
had first discovered her nearly eight years before, on the 
June afternoon, now memorable to both. Footsteps caused 
her to glance up the bank, and then she pulled her father 
into the concealment afforded by a clump of cedars. In a 
few moments, Saville came out on the point and threw him- 
self down upon the grassy plot where he had seen Vera re- 
clining before he caused her hasty flight. She put her finger 
to her lips, and made a sign to her father not to move, and 
then she stole up toward him as he had before approached 
her, and reached the same low cedar over which he had 
peered wonderingly and admiringly at her childish face and 
form. 

“ O stupid Theron ! can’t you feel that I am here ?” she 
thought. “ I felt your presence even then before I saw you. 
I am so near that I can almost touch you, and yet there you 
lie at lazy length.” 

He commenced singing, in a low tone, 

“ I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows.'’ 

She waited no longer, but, in her sweet voice, repeated 
the old refrain, which had been the signal for so many of 
their trysts. He sprang up, and catching a glimpse of her 
laughing and blushing face back of the cedar, came instantly 
to her side. 

” See what a whirligig time is,” she said. ” I surprised 
you on this occasion.” 

“ But I shall not run away as you did, Vera.” 

” Indeed 1 Now it is my turn to be surprised again. I 
had fears lest, in your desire to escape, you might plunge 
into the water.” 

He looked at her very earnestly, and her eyes drooped 
under his gaze, as they had, years before, in the early dawn, 
after she had rescued him from Fort Clinton. 


WEDDED WITH HER MOTHER'S RING. 447 


“ Vera,” he said hesitatingly, ” I am very poor.” 

” What has that to do with the subject ?” she asked, with 
a sudden mirthfulness in her eyes. 

“lam but a cripple,” he continued sadly, “ and there 
is a dark stain upon my name.” 

Her laughing eyes became full of tears. 

“ Circumstances have greatly changed. You are now 
Vera Wellingly, and the heiress of large wealth.” 

“ I would rather be the ragged, friendless Vera Brown 
you found at my mother’s grave, than have you talk in this 
way, Theron.” 

“ Would to heaven you were !” he said with passionate 
earnestness ; “for then I would kneel at your feet and beg 
you to be my wife.” 

She dashed her tears right and left, and taking his hand, 
asked, 

“ Theron, what right ha^e you to this ring? You have 
become a skeptic again, and I shall have to teach you a new 
and stronger faith.” 

“ And may I give this old, bent ring which you are wear- 
ing its first meaning ?” he said eagerly. 

“ It never had any other meaning to me,” she said, with 
a low laugh, and then she added, with an exquisite touch of 
pathos, “We could not help loving each other, Theron, 
after all that had happened ; we could only help doing 
wrong. Do not grieve that you have lost an arm, for you 
shall have both of mine in its place. That which you call 
a stain upon your name has come to be, in my eyes, the 
most flashing jewel in the crown of your manhood. When 
that poor creature fled to your door from her father’s scorn 
and curses, you, who had been most wronged, acted as the 
Divine Man would have done. If you could be so kind to 
her, how sure I am of patient tenderness ! I will conclude 
my long homily with this plain exhortation : Never forget 


448 


JVEyJJ? TO NATURE'S HEAET. 


that Vera Wellingly and Vera Brown are one and the same 
person. It will save you a world of trouble.’’ 

Then she called her father, but he had stolen away and 
left the lovers to themselves. 

The long and terrible war was over. The last British 
soldier had embarked from the city of New York, and Wash- 
ington, who had become the foremost general of the age, 
was about to repair to the seat of government, that he might 
resign his commission and become a simple American citi- 
zen. But, before doing so, he attended a wedding in a 
beautiful uptown villa which had been hastily prepared for 
the occasion. 

It was a magnificent affair for those primitive and war- 
depleted times. Sam Fraunces and his buxom daughter 
Phoebe presided over the cuisine and entertainment, and the 
best military band of the army discoursed gay music. Many 
of the leading men of the country. State, and city, were pres- 
ent, and among them, it might almost be said, was Captain 
Molly, for she persisted in wearing her cocked hat and ar- 
tilleryman’s coat. Surgeon Jasper found himself an honor- 
able master of ceremonies, and Tascar was charged with so 
many important duties that he at last was satisfied that he 
utterly eclipsed his old friend, Pompey. His mother, old 
Gula, in her lofty red turban, looked as if she might have 
been in very truth an African dowager queen. 

Mrs. Saville was so happy that she quite renewed her 
youth, and would have been perfectly ready to admit that 
heaven had made a better match than she had thriftily com- 
passed, as she had once supposed. Vera’s gentle and affec- 
tionate manner had won her heart at once, while she, at the 
same time, complacently remembered the ducats of the 
bride. 

The tall, bent form of the father was conspicuous, even 
though, in accordance with his old shrinking habit, he ever 


WEDDED WITH HER MOTHER'S RING. 449 


sought the background in the brilliant scene. Peace sat 
serenely on his brow, where gloom had lowered for so many 
years. He believed that the curse had passed away from 
him and his, and he was daily becoming more grateful for 
recognized blessings. 

But Colonel Wellingly was the genius of the occasion, 
and, with a genial, high-bred courtesy, he moved among the 
guests, bestowing words of welcome and graceful attentions, 
with the tact of one whose thorough knowledge of men en- 
abled him to make every utterance and act timely and appro- 
priate. To each one he gave the sense of being recognized 
and cared for ; and his fine breeding made him at ease in 
addressing Governor Clinton, or the Commander-in-chief, 
and no less so in speaking to some subaltern, or Captain 
Molly herself. 

Soon a breezy and expectant rustle and hum of voices an- 
nounced that the bride and groom were descending the grand 
stairway. 

As Vera entered, leaning upon the arm of her father, 
there was a deep murmur of admiration. 

Her heart was filled with unspeakable gratitude, for God’s 
minister was before her, and in his hand God’s Holy Word. 
And when Saville spoke the words, “ With this ring I thee 
wed,” and put upon her finger the plain gold band with 
which her father had espoused her mother, she thought she 
felt that mother’s hands resting upon her head in blessing. 
Even in that supreme moment, her mind flashed back to the 
hour of her strong temptation, when her mother’s charge that 
she should be wedded with this ring came to her help like 
an angel’s hand. While the clergyman was offering the 
concluding prayer, her mind wandered a little, and harbored 
the thought, 

“If on earth God can thus richly reward patient obedi- 
ence, what will heaven be ?” 


450 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. 

As Washington was about to take his leave, with strong 
expressions of his regard and kindly interest, Saville asked 
him if he would grant them a brief private interview. 

With some surprise he consented, and was conducted into 
a beautiful little room, to which no guests had been admit- 
ted. On a stand of inlaid wood of rare value, and resting 
on some exquisitely embroidered velvet, lay a little book. 

“Does your Excellency recognize this.?” asked Vera, 
pointing to it. 

As Washington took it up, a quick ray of intelligence 
lighted up his face, and he said, 

“ It is my old Bible, which I have carried through many 
a battle. ’ ’ 

“God bless your Excellency!” said Vera, taking his 
hand in strong emotion, “ This book, which is your gilt, 
carried me through the one sore battle of my life.” 

“ And this happy wedding to-night,” added Saville, in a 
tone of deep feeling, ‘ ‘ at which I feel the Son of God is 
present, as truly as He was at Cana, is due to your gift of 
this Bible, and the Christian counsel which accompanied it. 
I was then an unbeliever, and was tempting this dear wife 
to a union in which she must have thrown away her mother’s 
wedding-ring. But this Bible saved us both, and we bless 
you for it with a gratitude that shall never cease. ’ ’ 

Tears gathered quickly in Washington’s eyes, and taking 
Vera in his arms, he kissed her tenderly, saying, 

“ The words which you and your husband have spoken 
form one of those memories which grow dearer to the last 
hour of life. ” 

One quiet summer evening, Arthur and Guy Wellingly 
issued from the door of the rustic hunting-lodge into which 
the mountain cabin had been developed, and, following a 
path, they came to a lovely and secluded spot, embowered 
in the primeval trees of the forest. From a pedestal arose a 


IVEDDED WITH HER MOTHER'S RING. 451 

light shaft of white marble, around which was entwined the 
clinging ivy. It bore no name. That was engraved on the 
hearts of the brothers. 

Was she a weak woman who had thus enchained two such 
men ? Is not that faith rational which affirms that love so 
faithful must have a spiritual and eternal fruition ? 


THE END. 





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